WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 


BY 

LILIAN  BENNET-THOMPSON 

AND 
GEORGE  HUBBARD 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1922 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
THE  CENTUBT  Co. 


PRINTED    IN    XT.    8.    A. 


TO 
HENRY  GALLUP  PAINE 

WITH  AFFECTIONATE    REGARD 


2135700 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 


Without  Compromise 


FROM  the  narrow,  scarred  doorway  of  the  ex- 
press office,  a  fat  youth  emerged;  he  cast  a 
languid  glance  up  and  down  the  street,  yawned, 
cupped  his  hands  about  his  mouth,  and  vociferated 
shrilly : 

"Dick!     DickLeighton!" 

"Ike  Milliken's  calling  you,  Dick,"  the  pretty 
young  woman  at  the  stamp  window  remarked;  and 
Leighton  nodded. 

"Thanks.  I  heard  him,  Norah.  I  '11  see  what 
he  wants,  in  a  minute." 

"How  's  the  Judge  to-day?" 

"About  the  same.  A  little  weaker,  if  anything, 
the  nurse  told  me  over  the  telephone.  I  'm  on  my 
way  up  to  the  house  now."  Leighton  glanced  into 
one  of  the  numbered  boxes,  found  it  empty,  and 
went  out  of  the  post-office.  "What  do  you  want, 
Ike*?"  he  asked,  when  he  was  half-way  across  the 
street. 

Milliken  yawned  again,  prodigiously,  closing  his 

3 


4  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

eyes  and  opening  his  mouth  until  it  rounded  out  into 
an  enormous  O. 

"Pa'ka  f'r  Jugruch,"  he  announced. 

"What?' 

"Package  for  Judge  Randolph,"  Milliken  re- 
peated, somewhat  more  lucidly.  "It  come  this 
morning,  and  it 's  marked  'Perishable,'  so  I  thought 
I  'd  better  tell  you." 

"But  why  the  extraordinary  haste?"  Dick  in- 
quired pleasantly.  "Surely  it  ought  to  take  more 
than  six  hours  to  send  anything  three  whole  blocks !" 

"Well,  I  did  n't  have  nobody  to  send,"  protested 
Milliken,  in  an  aggrieved  tone,  "and  of  course  I 
could  n't  leave  the  office.  I  figured  I  'd  see  you  go 
by.  And,  anyways,"  he  wound  up,  "I  guess  it  ain't 
hurt  none.  Do  you  want  to  take  it  now,  or  shall 
I  wait  and — " 

"Get  it !"  Dick  interrupted.  "I  '11  take  it  with 
me.  Perishable  stuff! — and  lying  around  in  that 
cubby-hole  since  the  nine  train  this  morning!" 

"Well,  I  didn't  have  nobody  to  send,  I  tell 
you!"  Milliken  turned  back  into  the  small,  dark 
room  that  served  as  express  and  telegraph  office, 
and  brought  out  an  oblong  box,  the  cover  of  which 
bore  the  imprint  of  a  Pennsylvania  nursery.  "How 
was  I  to  get  it  over,  I  'd  like  to  know?  S'pose  I  'd 
left  the  office  and  somebody  'd  wanted  to  send  a 
message?  What  'd  I  'a'  done  then,  hey?" 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  5 

"You  could  n't  have  telephoned  the  office,  I 
presume*?  Or  asked  anybody  to  tell  me  it  was 
here?  If  these  are  ruined" — Dick  tapped  the  box 
— "the  Judge  will  be  quite  likely  to  wonder  why 
you  showed  so  much  initiative." 

"I  tell  you,  I  did  n't  have  nobody  to  send," 
Milliken  argued.  "I  did  n't  think  't  was  worth 
while  to  phone.  You  tell  the  Judge  how  it  was. 
I  don't  want  him  to  be  sore  at  me.  You  tell  him 
I  did  n't  have  nobody — "  He  was  still  protesting 
and  explaining  volubly  when  Dick  shouldered  the 
box  and  set  off  up  the  street. 

Main  Avenue  and  its  continuation,  Upper  Main 
Avenue,  ran  the  full  length  of  the  town.  Its  eastern 
end  was  unpaved,  and  dwindled  into  an  uneven 
dirt  road  that  followed  the  intricate  windings  of 
Squatter  Creek.  Toward  the  west  it  stopped  at 
Border  Street,  on  one  corner  of  which  the  Grand 
View  Hotel  reared  its  three  rickety  stories.  Be- 
tween the  hotel  and  the  Four  Corners,  three  short 
blocks  away,  was  the  business  section,  housed  in 
squat  frame  and  brick,  and  huddled  together  close 
to  the  narrow  cement  sidewalk.  At  intervals  of 
about  a  hundred  feet  apart,  the  red-brick  paving  of 
the  roadway  gave  out  a  hollow  rumbling  sound, 
whenever  the  iron-shod  wheels  of  a  wagon  passed 
over  it.  Main  Avenue  was  hot  and  dusty  in  sum- 
mer, cold  and  slippery  in  winter,  wet  and  chilly 


6  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

between  seasons;  always  disagreeable.  There  were 
a  few  small  dispirited  maple-trees  lining  the  curb; 
one  large  elm,  directly  in  front  of  the  confectioner's 
shop  known  as  "The  Greek's,"  seemed  to  mark  an 
oasis. 

The  Methodist  and  Lutheran  churches,  severe  in 
dull-brown  paint,  led  the  -way  into  the  residential 
section,  which  had  climbed  up  hill  and  down  dale 
with  a  blissful  disregard  for  the  systematically 
geometrical  destiny  intended  for  it  by  old  Simeon 
Randolph,  for  whom  the  town  had  been  named. 
As  if  in  revolt  against  the  drab  ugliness  of  Main 
Avenue,  the  streets  which  branched  off  from  it  made 
prompt  promise  of  reform ;  and  the  farther  one  went 
from  the  Four  Corners,  the  more  effectively  was  it 
carried  out. 

Summit  Street,  which  ran  along  the  top  of  a  gen- 
tle rise  of  ground  some  ten  minutes'  walk  from 
"down  street,"  was  all  that  its  name  implied. 
Broad,  tree-studded  lawns  of  velvet  smoothness 
sloped  down  to  precise  pavements.  The  road  was 
of  fine  macadam,  shaded  by  a  double  row  of  magnif- 
icent elms,  the  grave  branches  of  which  crossed  and 
interlaced  in  an  almost  unbroken  canopy  of  glossy 
green.  Jigsaw  ornamentation  was  frowned  on 
here ;  and  only  one  iron  deer  dared  to  show  its  amaz- 
ing antlers  on  the  whole  street. 

The  Randolph  place  was  at  the  corner  of  Hill 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  7 

and  Summit  streets.  It  had  been  old  when  Judge 
Gordon  Randolph  was  born.  Long  and  low  and 
rambling,  its  wide,  unpainted  boards  weathered  to 
a  mellow  gray,  it  seemed  to -have  sprung  naturally 
from  the  soil,  to  have  grown  in  its  place  exactly  as 
had  the  fine  old  elms  that  sheltered  it. 

"The  day  they  tote  me  up  Cemetery  Street, 
Dick,"  Judge  Randolph  had  said,  about  four  years 
before,  "I  want  you  to  move  into  my  house.  You  '11 
keep  Miriam  on  to  do  for  you."  Miriam  was  the 
Judge's  housekeeper.  "Of  course,  she 's  a  vile 
cook,  and  she 's  the  temper  and  vocabulary  of  a 
Billingsgate  fishwife, — whatever  that  is;  Miriam's 
got  'em,  anyway.  But  she  '11  keep  you  from  being 
too  comfortable,  and  that  '11  be  good  for  you.  You 
won't  dare  kick  to  her,  so  you'll  go  out  and  kick 
to  somebody  else,  no  matter  about  what;  you  can 
always  find  something  to  kick  about  in  Randolph. 
I  've  pretty  well  stubbed  the  toes  of  my  shoes  on 
one  thing  and  another,  but  they  're  still  stout  and 
able.  Maybe  I  'd  better  leave  'em  to  you.  There 
comes  a  time  in  every  man's  life  when  he  has  to 
take  a  stand ;  and  when  that  time  comes  he  's  got 
to  kick  to  some  purpose.  If  I  have  n't  made  a  bad 
mistake  in  you,  you  're  the  man  who  will  do  it.  I  'd 
like  to  think  you  were  going  to  step  into  my  shoes, 
Dick;  you'd  make  much  better  use  of  'em  than 
I  've  been  able  to." 


8  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

At  the  time  Dick  had  laughed  and  said  he  guessed 
it  would  be  a  good  many  years  before  he  or  any 
one  else  would  step  into  Judge  Randolph's  shoes; 
the  idea  of  death  seemed  infinitely  remote  from  the 
man  who  was  walking  briskly  along  beside  him. 
Dick's  own  splendid  shoulders,  young  and  straight, 
were  no  broader  than  those  of  the  Judge,  unbowed 
by  the  weight  of  sixty-eight  years.  The  crisp 
brown  head  was  barely  level  with  the  shaggy  white 
one.  The  gray  eyes  were  no  brighter  than  the 
blue,  but  they  were  softer,  less  shrewdly  calculat- 
ing. 

Despite  careful  teaching  Dick  had  not  then  as- 
similated the  whole  of  the  Judge's  golden  rule  of 
philosophy,  which  according  to  the  old  man's  own 
phraseology  was:  "Do  unto  the  other  fellow  what 
he  'd  like  to  do  unto  you,  if  he  had  brains  enough 
to  think  of  it."  The  mouth  of  the  younger  man, 
too,  although  larger,  was  more  tender,  less  stern. 
In  the  contour  of  the  lips  there  was  something 
almost  feminine ;  but  this  suggestion  was  more  than 
balanced  by  the  aggressive  chin  and  square,  deter- 
mined jaw.  The  nose,  rather  prominent,  was  well 
chiseled,  and  the  ears  were  set  close  back  against 
the  finely  shaped  head.  Dick  Leighton  was  not 
handsome,  but  he  had  a  good  face,  a  strong  face; 
and  the  build  of  his  firmly  knit  young  body  was 
that  of  an  athlete. 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  9 

"Yes,"  the  Judge  had  repeated  musingly,  "I  '11 
be  mighty  glad  to  have  you  step  into  my  shoes, 
Dick.  I  '11  leave  'em  to  you,  along  with  the  house 
and  Miriam,  if  she  lives  longer  than  I  do,  which 
is  n't  probable.  She  has  a  different  kind  of  mis'ry 
every  other  day." 

But  Miriam,  stout,  red-faced,  and  'hearty,  opened 
the  front  door  for  Dick,  when,  the  express  package 
balanced  on  his  shoulder,  he  rang  the  bell;  while 
upstairs,  in  the  great  mahogany  four-poster  that  had 
been  in  the  Randolph  family  for  four  generations, 
Judge  Gordon  Randolph  lay  dying. 

He  was  dying  as  he  had  lived — exactly  as  he 
wanted  to.  He  argued  with  the  doctor,  and  openly 
defied  the  nurse.  He  would  die  in  his  own  way, 
undosed  by  any  quacks,  and  unbossed  by  any  young 
hussy  hired  for  the  express  purpose  of  harassing  his 
last  moments  on  earth. 

"Why,  damn  it  all,  sir,"  the  old  man  rasped  at 
Dick,  who  was  the  only  visitor  he  would  allow  to 
be  admitted,  "she  tells  me  I  can't  smoke,  and  tries 
to  take  my  cigar  away!" 

That  the  effort  had  not  met  with  conspicuous 
success,  was  evidenced  by  the  black  perfecto  that 
the  Judge  was  puffing  furiously.  Through  the 
eddying  swirl  of  pleasantly  aromatic  smoke,  his 
eyes,  clear  and  bright  as  the  eyes  of  a  child,  gleamed 
steely  blue.  They  and  the  bristling  white  brows 


10  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

seemed  the  only  live  things  about  him.  His  skin 
had  a  strange  grayish  tinge;  the  flesh  hung  loosely 
on  his  big  frame.  His  cheeks  were  sunken,  and 
the  hands  that  trembled  against  the  counterpane 
were  mere  bony  claws,  etched  with  purple  veins. 
He  had  never  been  a  great  smoker,  and  he  had  been 
quite  well  content  to  do  without  tobacco  until  the 
nurse  told  him  he  could  have  none.  Thereafter  he 
smoked  incessantly. 

"I  '11  teach  her  whp  's  boss  around  here !"  he 
barked  at  Dick.  "Can't  a  man  die  in  peace,  eh1? 
Jezebel!"  It  was  his  favorite  expletive  and  had 
no  reference  whatever  to  the  young  woman  in 
question. 

"But,  Judge,  what  she  tells  you  is  for  your  good," 
Dick  urged  pacifically.  "And  Doctor  Evans  is 
doing  everything  he  can — " 

"To  send  me  to  the  lunatic  asylum  before  I  get 
to  Cemetery  Hill,"  the  Judge  cut  him  short.  "Now 
you  begin  and  help  along  the  good  work.  What 
was  that  package  you  had1?" 

"From  the  nurseries,  sir.     Your  order." 

"Where  did  you  get  it?  The  four  train  isn't 
in  yet." 

"It  came  on  the  nine  this  morning.  Ike  said  he 
didn't  have  any  one  to  send  over  with  it,"  Dick 
explained  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

The  Judge  waved  his  hand. 


11 

"Ike  is  the  only  human  being  ever  born  without 
a  trace  of  brains,"  he  said.  "Go  get  it,  will  you*?" 

Dick  brought  up  the  package  which  he  had  left 
in  the  lower  hall,  severed  the  string,  and  took  off 
the  cover  of  the  box.  Within  were  nine  dormant 
rose-trees,  the  roots  caked  with  earth  and  rolled  in 
newspaper. 

"Good  stock,"  grunted  the  Judge.  "  'With 
these  nine  columns  round  me,  two  and  two,  The  odd 
one  at  my  feet  where  Anselm  stands' — "  He 
grinned  at  Dick.  "You  '11  have  to  see  to  planting 
them.  If  they  'd  come  when  I  ordered  them,  I  'd 
have  done  it  myself;  but  I  've  shown  you  where 
they  're  to  go." 

When  Judge  Randolph  began  his  gardening 
operations  in  the  cemetery,  the  town  had  been 
astounded  and  shocked.  The  idea  that  a  man 
should  plant  flowers  about  his  own  grave,  order  and 
erect  his  own  headstone,  struck  the  conventional 
little  community  as  not  only  fantastic  but  almost 
blasphemous. 

Had  the  perpetrator  of  this  remarkable  deed  been 
any  but  Gordon  Randolph,  radical  steps  would  un- 
doubtedly have  been  taken  to  curb  his  abnormal 
activities;  but  it  had  been  a  good  many  years  since 
any  one  had  been  able  successfully  to  interfere  with 
any  whim  in  which  the  Judge  chose  to  indulge 
himself.  Visitors  to  the  quaint  little  cemetery  on 


12  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

the  wind-swept  hilltop  were  frequently  diverted  by 
the  sight  of  the  Judge,  coatless,  hat  tilted  to  the 
back  of  his  head,  spade  in  hand,  digging  with  a 
vigor  and  energy  that  belied  his  years. 

The  headstone,  peeping  out  like  a  stiffly  starched 
shirt  front  from  between  the  lapels  of  the  black 
alpaca  coat,  made  the  announcement  that  this  was 

THE  RESTING-PLACE 

of 

GORDON  RANDOLPH 
Bora,  March  12,  1838 
Died 

"No,  not  the  'last  resting-place,'  "  the  Judge  had 
been  wont  to  bark  at  any  one  questioning  the  ac- 
curacy of  the  stone-cutter  who  had  carved  the  in- 
scription. "The  resting-place.  And  I  'm  going  to 
have  it  the  way  I  want  it." 

But  he  had  not  been  able  to  finish  his  work. 

"You'll  do  that,"  he  said  to  Dick.  "Phlox 
sublata  over  the  top,  with  a  border  of  sweet  alyssum. 
And  fill  in  the  second  date  line.  That 's  all  you  '11 
have  to  attend  to — there."  His  keen  eyes  flickered 
with  a  glint  like  sun  on  blued  steel.  "Pull  up  that 
chair,"  he  ordered  abruptly.  "This  is  the  last 
chance  I  '11  have  to  talk  to  you,  and  I  've  got  to 
make  the  most  of  it." 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  13 

Dick  drew  his  chair  closer  to  the  bed,  and  the 
Judge,  temporarily  discarding  his  cigar,  turned  his 
head  on  the  pillow  so  that  he  could  study  the  young 
man's  face. 

"It 's  over  three  years  since  I  took  you  into  part- 
nership, Dick,"  he  began;  "nine  since  you  first  came 
to  the  office.  In  that  time  I  've  come  to  know  you 
pretty  well,  and  most  of  what  I  know,  I  like. 
You  're  clean,  you  're  clear-headed,  you  're  clever, 
you  're  loyal,  and  you  're  honest — enough.  I  like 
your  ambition,  too.  I  have  n't  a  mite  of  patience 
with  the  fellow  that  sits  around  under  the  tree  and 
waits  for  somebody  to  come  along  and  climb  after 
the  fruit  for  him.  You  've  shinned  up  the  trunk 
and  picked  plums  for  yourself." 

Dick  smiled. 

"Don't  you  remember  telling  me  that  the  best  way 
for  a  man  to  get  ahead  was  to  use  his  boots,  his 
hands,  and  his  brains — and  climb*?" 

"It 's  not  alone  the  best  way:  it 's  the  only  way 
to  get  up  the  plum-tree,"  said  the  Judge.  "But 
you  want  to  watch  out  for  rotten  limbs,  and  for 
venturing  out  too  far  on  small  branches.  If  you  're 
not  careful,  one  of  'em  '11  break,  and  break  you. 
Do  you  follow  me*?" 

Dick  nodded. 

"There  was  that  matter  of  the  railroad,"  the 
Judge  pursued.  "It  was  a  clear  enough  case;  you 


14  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

knew  when  you  took  it  that  you  were  on  the  wrong 
side.  You  won  it,  and  you  got  a  good  fee,  but  you 
were  skating  on  mighty  thin  ice.  That  contract 
you  drew  for  Guinness  'had  a  joker  in  it.  You  put 
it  in  deliberately  and  you  got  away  with  it. 
Appleby's  will  was  an  outrage,  but  you  were  a  good 
enough  lawyer  to  make  it  water-tight.  And  there 
are  other  things — " 

The  Judge  reached  for  his  cigar  and  puffed  at  it 
for  a  moment.  Then  he  put  it  down  again. 

"Yes,  you  're  a  good  lawyer,"  he  said.  "You  're 
a  mighty  good  lawyer.  And  you  've  made  a  good 
sheriff.  That  sink  of  iniquity  downtown  is  cleaner 
than  I  can  remember  it 's  being  since  the  mills  were 
built.  But  Jackson's  place  is  still  open.  If 
there 's  any  trouble,  it  always  seems  to  happen 
somewhere  else.  You  've  closed  two  new  saloons 
owned  by  men  who  compared  with  Cory  Jackson 
are  lilies  of  purity,  and — Jackson  still  flourishes." 

"But,  Judge,"  Dick  protested,  "you  Ve  just  ad- 
mitted that  there  's  never  any  trouble  at  Jackson's. 
Why  should  I  bother  him  without  good  and  suffici- 
ent reason?  And  you  say  yourself,"  he  added  de- 
fensively, "that  loyalty  is  a  good  quality  to 
cultivate.  You  wouldn't  have  me  disloyal  to  my 
friends'?" 

The  Judge  shook  his  head. 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  15 

"No,"  he  said,  "hardly.  You  stick  by  your 
friends,  my  boy.  Some  of  them  may  be  an  abom- 
ination in  the  sight  of  the  law,  but  they  're  an 
ever-present  help  in  time  of  trouble.  It  was  Jack- 
son who  first  suggested  that  you  'd  adorn  the  office 
of  sheriff,  was  n't  it?  Well,  you  could  n't  very 
well  bite  the  hand  that  fed  you ;  you  can  't  as  long 
as  it  keeps  itself  covered,  of  course;  and  if  it  shows 
a  bit  of  itself  once  in  a  while,  you  can  be  discreetly 
blind,  as  long  as  no  one  else  is  likely  to  see  it.  But 
that  sort  of  thing  is  like  the  plum-tree,  Dick.  I 
mean,  you  can't  sit  on  a  branch,  with  one  leg  hang- 
ing on  each  side  of  it,  and  be  sure  somebody  is  n't 
going  to  grab  you  by  the  foot  and  haul  you  down. 
You  've  got  to  stand  square  with  yourself. 

"You  want  to  get  ahead  and  you  want  to  go 
quick.  Well,  you  've  made  big  strides  in  the  year 
since  they  elected  you  sheriff.  You  're  making 
money;  you  're  making  a  name.  But  you  've  done 
some  sailing  that  has  been  pretty  close  to  the  wind. 
I  'm  not  implying  that  you  've  been  crooked,"  he 
added  at  Dick's  quick  flush,  "but  you  've  been — 
clever.  Don't  go  out  too  far  on  that  branch.  Play 
the  game  as  hard  as  you  like  and  hit  the  other  fellow 
first;  but  hit  him — don't  trip  him  up  in  the  dark  and 
hide  behind  the  fence  when  the  night  watchman 
comes  running  to  see  who  yelled.  That 's  Dave 


i6  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

Ainsworth's  game ;  and  besides,  somebody  's  liable 
to  turn  a  flashlight  on  you." 

Dick  nodded  abstractedly,  then  cast  a  quick 
glance  at  the  Judge,  who  chuckled  maliciously. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  sized  Dave  up  long  ago,  and 
you  know  that  I  know  you  did,"  he  said.  "You  're 
smarter  than  I  was,  a  good  deal.  By  the  time 
I  realized  fully  what  sort  of  man  Dave  is,  it  was 
too  late  to  do  anything  about  it.  We  'd  let  him 
get  too  strong.  It  would  have  meant  a  big  fight, 
and  there  were  reasons  why  I  could  n't  go  into  it — 
then.  And,  after  that  I  was  too  old.  I  was  pretty 
sure  I  could  n't  finish  it,  so  I  just  let  things  drift 
along,  taking  a  kick  now  and  then,  with  one  foot 
or  the  other,  sometimes  with  both,  but  mostly 
marking  time.  But  that 's  all  right.  What  I  'd 
like  to  know  is  how  many  trips — business  trips,  of 
course — you've  found  it  necessary  to  make  to  New 
York  in  the  last  three  years,  eh? 

"Well,"  as  Dick,  embarrassed  at  this  unexpected 
attack,  made  no  reply,  "that 's  all  right,  too. 
Jean  's  a  fine  girl ;  plenty  of  brains  even  if  she  does 
let  her  ideals  run  away  with  her  common  sense. 
She  thinks  right  is  right  and  wrong  is  wrong.  Men 
are  good,  or  they  're  bad,  just  all  black  or  all  white, 
with  no  shades  in  between.  She  's  due  for  some 
heavy  bumps  when  she  finds  out  that  she  's  color- 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  17 

blind.  But  she  's  worth  while.  I  liked  her  grit, 
too — going  to  study  and  work  in  New  York,  all  by 
herself.  For  a  youngster  it 's  a  stiffish  way;  that 's 
why  Dave  did  n't  raise  more  hell  about  her  going. 
He  was  n't  any  too  well  satisfied  to  have  you  see  so 
much  of  her.  If  he  knew  you  were  figuring  on 
marrying  her  some  day,  he  'd  be  mad  clean  through. 
Still," — the  Judge  looked  out  of  the  window  reflec- 
tively— "I  don't  suppose  that 's  the  only  reason  why 
you  should.  She  's  her  mother's  own  daughter.  But 
you  want  to  remember  that  she  's  Dave's  daughter, 
too.  What  do  you  suppose  she  's  going  to  say  to 
you,  eh?' 

"  'Yes,'  I  hope,"  Dick  said  coolly. 

The  Judge  snorted. 

"Numbskull !     That 's  not  what  I  mean." 

"Well,  what  do  you  mean,  sir1?" 

The  Judge  picked  up  the  stub  of  his  perfecto 
again,  found  that  it  had  gone  out,  and  regarded  it 
with  some  disfavor. 

"Humph !"  said  he.  "Cigars  are  n't  what  they 
used  to  be." 

"You  mean,  sir — *?"     Dick  persisted. 

"I  mean,  sir,  that  there  are  just  three  things  on 
earth  by  which  Dave  Ainsworth  sets  any  store:  his 
position,  his  son,  and  his  daughter.  All  of  'em  un- 
doubtedly because  they  belong  to  him.  Any  man 
who  tries  to  separate  him  from  anything  he  regards 


i8  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

as  his  own — and  that 's  anything  he  wants — is  in  for 
a  good  day's  work." 

"Then  you  think  he  '11  object  very  strongly  to — 


"To  your  marrying  his  daughter?  Certainly! 
But  not  half  so  strongly  as  he  will  when  he  finds  out 
you  want  his  seat  in  Congress." 

"His  seat  in  Congress*?"  Dick  echoed.  "Oh, 
that 's  all  in  the  air.  I  've  heard  rumors,  of  course ; 
but  even  if  they  amounted  to  anything,  I  'd  want  to 
talk  to  Jean  first.  I  '11  have  to  get  her  point  of 
view,  and  I  mean  to  speak  to  her  before  there 's  any 
chance  of  her  hearing  it  elsewhere." 

"Hm-m,"  said  the  Judge.  "So  you  think  there  's 
no  likelihood  of  her  hearing  about  it  at  home,  for 
instance"?  How  long  do  you  suppose  it 's  going  to 
take  this  breeze  to  blow  up  the  street?  You  don't 
suppose  that  young  hopeful  of  Dave's  is  blind  and 
deaf,  do  you  ?  The  only  reason  Dave  lets  him  hang 
around  downtown  is  so  that  he  can  get  a  line  on 
what 's  in  the  wind  there.  Quick  as  he  catches  a 
scent  he  trots  home  with  it.  He  's  done  well  for 
Dave  in  a  good  many  ways,  but  mighty  badly  for 
himself.  I  tell  you,  Dick" — the  Judge's  thin  lips 
were  compressed — "if  I  had  a  son  like  Tommy  I'd 
rather  see  him  shovel  coal  for  the  devil  than  watch 
him  deliberately  cross  the  bridge  over  Squatter  Creek. 
At  least  I  'd  know  he  'd  reached  the  limit." 


II 

OLD  Simeon  Randolph  had  possessed  a  me- 
thodical soul.  At  his  instance  and  insistence, 
the  streets  of  the  town  which  he  had  founded  had 
been  laid  out  in  a  pattern  almost  geometrically  exact 
in  its  regularity,  and  given  numerals  instead  of 
names.  Old  Simeon  had  believed  sturdily  in  the 
future  of  the  town.  Until  the  day  of  his  death,  he 
had  confidently  predicted  that  it  would  one  day  be 
a  great  manufacturing  and  trading  center.  His  son, 
Caton  Randolph,  the  father  of  the  Judge,  had,  how- 
ever, cherished  no  such  illusions. 

"A  poor  imitation  is  worse  than  none  at  all,"  he 
had  repeatedly  declared.  "We're  a  town;  we'll 
never  be  anything  else.  Very  well,  then,  let 's  be- 
have like  a  town,  and  stop  trying  to  ape  the  cities." 
He  it  was  who  had  introduced  and  carried  through 
a  resolution  to  name  the  streets,  doing  away  with 
the  numerals.  He  jeered  down  a  motion  to  change 
the  name  of  Squatter  Creek  to  Silver  River;  "Ma- 
laria Brook"  would  be  more  suitable  than  anything 
else,  he  had  declared.  His  one  concession  had  been 
in  the  matter  of  Main  Avenue. 

"Hifalutin  nonsense;  why  not  Main  Street,  like 

19 


20  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

any  other  one-horse  town?"  he  had  grumbled,  even 
while  yielding  the  point.  And  he  had  directed  that 
he  be  buried  in  the  queer  little  out-of-the-way  ceme- 
tery on  the  Hill,  "because  the  devil  can't  find  me 
there." 

Your  true  native  never  spoke  of  the  business  sec- 
tion of  Randolph  as  "downtown";  it  was  "down 
street."  "Downtown"  was  used  to  designate  that 
portion  of  the  town  that  lay  to  the  south  of  Squatter 
Creek,  where  the  great  steel-mills  were.  Some  of 
the  better  class  of  citizens  had  scarcely  set  foot  down- 
town; a  good  many  mothers  never  thought  of  it  with- 
out a  shudder,  and  when  they  said  their  prayers  in- 
cluded a  petition  that  the  Almighty  would  protect 
their  sons  against  its  contaminating  influence. 

Its  streets  were  narrow ;  its  houses  were  small  and 
jerry-built,  most  of  them  of  the  same  ugly  pattern. 
They  stood  close  together  and  close  to  the  sidewalk, 
the  cheap  paint  peeling  from  their  slate-gray  fronts, 
their  steps  and  shutters  sagging  crazily.  Some  had 
tiny  gardens,  where  a  few  pinched  flowers  straggled 
into  anemic  bloom;  at  some  of  the  windows  were 
curtains,  looped  back  with  bits  of  bright  ribbon. 
But,  for  the  most  part,  the  only  spots  of  color  were 
at  the  corners,  where  saloons,  garishly  bright  with 
plate-glass  and  mirrors,  struck  a  note  of  gaiety  that 
served  to  accentuate  the  somber  gloom  of  the  sur- 
roundings. Judge  Randolph  remembered  when 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  21 

there  had  been  no  buildings  at  all  south  of  the  creek; 
when  "the  Flats"  had  been  green  with  swamp-grass 
and  yellow  with  cowslips.  Dick  Leighton  himself 
remembered  when  "downtown"  had  been  a  clean,  if 
unprepossessing,  part  of  the  community.  Now — 

The  young  man  nodded  soberly  at  the  Judge's 
words. 

"I  'm  rather  fond  of  Tommy,"  he  said,  "and  1 5ve 
been  sorry  to  see  the  way  he  's  going.  He  used  to  be 
an  awfully  likable  youngster.  But  ever  since  he 
flunked  out  of  college  he  's  run  wild,  and  he  's  gotten 
pretty  nearly  insufferable.  He  needed  careful  dis- 
cipline, good  influences — " 

"And  he  got  tyranny  and  the  crowd  around  Cory 
Jackson's  bar,"  supplemented  the  Judge.  "He 
did  n't  want  to  go  to  college,  and  Dave  made  him. 
He  did  want  to  go  to  work  in  New  York,  and  Dave 
would  n't  let  him.  Every  sensible  idea  he  had  of 
doing  something  for  himself  Dave  warped  and 
twisted  until  Tommy  had  no  interest  in  it.  Dave 
bossed  him  and  bullied  him  until  he  lost  what 
little  backbone  God  gave  him  originally.  He 
wanted  to  get  out  from  under  his  father's  shadow 
— somewhere  where  he  'd  have  a  little  light  of  his 
own — and  the  only  place  Dave  would  let  him  shine 
was  over  on  the  Flats.  Jezebel !  If  Dave  Ains- 
worth  had  an  ordinary  eye  in  his  head,  instead  of  a 
capital  I,  he  'd  see  what  he  did  when  he  started  an 


22  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

information  bureau  out  of  a  boy's  natural  curios- 
ity." 

"It 's  a  rotten  shame !"  Dick  declared  warmly. 
"I  used  to  see  him  downtown  once  in  a  while,  and  I 
thought  then  that  he  was  n't  the  sort  of  boy  to  frater- 
nize with  the  bunch  that  hangs  around  there.  Then 
he  went  off  to  college,  and  if  he  'd  stayed  away  he  'd 
have  been  all  right.  But  he  seems  to  be  pretty  much 
of  a  fixture  now,  and  he  's  more  than  just  a  sort  of 
spy  for  Ainsworth.  He  's  always  been  a  good  mixer 
and  a  glib  talker;  he's  worked  up  quite  a  bit  of 
influence.  He  calls  all  the  boys  by  their  first  names, 
and  he  can  drink  and  swear  with  any  of  them.  I 
suspect  that  Jean  will  be  a  good  deal  more  upset  over 
the  change  that 's  taken  place  in  him  during  the  past 
four  years  than  over  this  Congressional  business, 
which  may  or  may  not  amount  to  something.  At 
present  it 's  just  talk  downtown." 

"Um-hm,"  rumbled  the  Judge.  "Just  talk  down- 
town. But  in  a  couple  of  months,  Jean  or  no  Jean, 
it 's  going  to  let  you  in  for  the  fight  of  your  life, 
catch-as-catch-can,  and  no  holds  barred.  You  '11 
have  to  stand  or  fall  by  yourself,  and  you  'II  need  a 
damn  clean  record!"  He  shot  out  the  last  words 
sharply  and  then  leaned  back  on  his  pillows,  look- 
ing frailer,  grayer,  more  skeleton-like  than  ever. 
Only  his  eyes  still  burned  with  clear,  indomitable 
fire.  "I  wish,"  he  said  almost  regretfully,  "that  I 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  23 

could  stay  and  watch  the  thing  out.  It  '11  be  worth 
seeing.  But  I  'm  past  patching  up." 

"A  complete  change,  Judge — sea  air,  might — " 

"It 's  no  use  steering  a  ship  for  the  open  sea  when 
her  boiler  's  due  to  bust  any  minute,"  the  Judge  in- 
terrupted grimly.  "I  've  got  one  leg  in  the  grave 
now,  and  the  other  is  n't  going  gallivantin'  to  the 
seashore  or  the  mountains  or  anywhere,  except  up 
Cemetery  Hill.  Never  mind  about  me.  I  'm  go- 
ing to  die  in  my  bed,  as  quietly  as  that  fool  of  a 
nurse  will  let  me.  I  'm — well,  I  'm  pretty  tired, 
Dick.  I've  lived  all  the  days  of  my  years  and  a  few 
odd  ones  over,  and  I  've  done  my  work.  Sometimes 
I  think  I  've  done  part  of  it  too  well."  The  bushy 
brows  converged  and  the  furrow  between  them  deep- 
ened. "I  mean,  as  far  as  you  're  concerned,  Dick." 

"Sir*?" 

"You  've  been  a  pretty  apt  pupil,  you  know. 
You  've  got  a  good  head  on  your  shoulders,  but  I  'm 
not  altogether  easy  in  my  mind  about  you;  I'm 
afraid  you  Ve  learned  your  lesson  too  thoroughly." 

Dick  shook  his  head  smilingly. 

"I  've  never  really  confused  your  principles  with 
your  sense  of  humor,  sir,"  he  said.  "As  a  matter 
of  fact,  very  few  people  in  town  do.  You  've 
never  succeeded  in  convincing  them  that  you  're  an 
unscrupulous  cynic;  your  practice  hasn't  trued  up 
with  your  preaching." 


24  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

The  Judge's  eyes  fell  away  sheepishly  from  Dick's 
whimsical  glance. 

"Well,"  he  said  gruffly,  fumbling  under  his  pillow 
for  a  handkerchief,  to  cover  his  confusion,  "it  won't 
hurt  you  to  remember  that  honesty  is  the  best  policy, 
although  I  suppose  you  've  never  heard  me  say  so  be- 
fore. It  pays  big  interest,  being  honest.  And,"  he 
could  not  help  adding,  "a  reputation  for  being  honest 
is  better  yet.  You  've  got  the  reputation.  Hold  on 
to  it.  Stand  square  with  yourself.  When  you  're 
in  the  dark,  keep  still  until  you  see  light  ahead. 
Then  travel  straight  for  it,  no  matter  who  or  what 
gets  in  the  way." 

The  door  opened  half-way;  there  was  the  glim- 
mer of  a  white  skirt  in  the  hall. 

"Get  out!"  shrilled  the  Judge.  He  grabbed  a 
fresh  cigar  and  shook  it  threateningly  at  the  nurse. 
"Get  out,  do  you  hear*?  And  don't  you  dare  come 
back  until  I  send  for  you!"  He  waited  until  the 
door  had  closed  before  he  continued : 

"This  being  clever,  Dick,  affects  you  a  good  deal 
the  way  liquor  does:  it  creates  an  appetite.  You 
put  over  one  smart  trick,  and  then  you  want  to  see  if 
you  can't  turn  one  that 's  just  a  little  smarter.  You 
tell  yourself  that  you  can  stop  any  time,  but  the  first 
thing  you  know,  it 's  got  a  hold  on  you  that  you  can't 
break;  it 's  just  like  drinking  rum.  And  if  you  don't 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  25 

use  discretion,  you  can  do  for  yourself  either  way." 

"I  understand,  sir." 

"When  I  'm  tucked  away  in  that  nice  little  bed 
I  've  made  up  for  myself,"  the  Judge  said,  "I  can 
rest  comfortably  if  I  know  your  eyes  and  ears  are 
open  and  that  you  're  taking  an  occasional  squint  at 
McAllister  and  Dave  Ainsworth.  They  '11  both 
bear  watching.  Of  course,  McAllister 's  just  a 
blatherskite.  He  winds  up  his  mouth  and  it  goes 
off  automatically,  like  an  alarm-clock;  the  only  way 
to  stop  it  is  to  put  your  hand  over  it.  He  's  a 
nuisance,  and  he  ought  to  be  abated.  He  'd  be  harm- 
less enough,  though,  if  it  were  n't  for  Dave.  Dave 's 
got  to  thinking  he  's  the  town,  the  county,  and  the 
State,  all  rolled  into  one  bundle.  Everybody  ko- 
tows to  him,  and  McAllister  bows  and  scrapes  and 
says,  'Yes,  me  Lord,'  whenever  he  opens  his  mouth. 

"Of  course,  he  's  a  strong  man,  Dick.  He  's  had 
things  his  own  way  so  long  that  he  's  got  the  notion 
there  is  n't  any  other  way.  When  he  finds  out  that 
you  think  differently,  he  '11  go  after  your  scalp.  If 
he  can  get  anything  on  you,  anything  at  all,  he  '11 
use  it  for  all  it 's  worth;  and  he  won't  sit  up  nights 
worrying  over  ethics,  either.  He  'd  run  a  steam 
roller  over  his  best  friend  if  he  could  win  by  it. 
That 's  Dave's  idea  of  a  fight :  win  it  somehow,  any- 
how. He  's  all  self.  And  if  you  ever  lock  horns 


26  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

with  him,  you  've  got  to  remember  that  you  can't 
bend  him ;  you  '11  have  to  break  him.  Make  up  your 
mind  to  that  before  you  start  anything." 

The  Judge  was  silent  a  moment,  rubbing  the  back 
of  one  thin  forefinger  across  his  forehead. 

"I  'm  not  leaving  you  any  money,  Dick,"  he  said 
presently.  "There  won't  be  much,  and  it  goes  to  my 
sister's  children.  If  they  're  anything  like  their 
mother  I  '11  regret  it ;  but  I  've  got  to  take  a  chance 
that  they  're  not.  They  won't  want  the  house  or 
Miriam,  and  they  won't  get  'em,  anyway.  You  get 
'em — and  the  shoes.  Sometimes  I  think  we  made  a 
mistake  when  we  sent  Dave  to  Washington  instead 
of  Miriam.  Jezebel !  Put  her  in  pants,  and  she  'd 
make  an  ideal  Congressman !  She  has  n't  the  brains 
of  a  gnat,  and  she  never  hears  anything  she  does  n't 
want  to  hear.  But  I  've  taught  her  to  leave  my  room 
alone,  and  she  hates  cats  and  Dave  Ainsworth." 

The  Judge  reached  out  a  withered  hand  and  laid 
it  over  the  young  man's  firm  brown  one. 

"You  '11  make  good,"  he  said.  "You  've  got  the 
stuff  in  you  to  be  a  big  man.  They  '11  send  you  to 
Congress;  I  'd  like  to  be  there  to  see  it.  It 's  been  a 
joy  to  watch  you  growing — growing.  I — "  the  old 
voice  faltered  ever  so  little — "I  'm  mighty  fond  of 
you,  Dick;  I've  loved  you  like  a  son.  You  were 
just  the  sort  of  boy  I  'd  always  wanted — the  sort  I 
might  have  had  if — she  had  n't  married  Dave. 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  27 

Maybe  I  've  done  you  more  harm  than  good — I  don't 
know.  But — " 

The  door  opened  again,  wide  this  time,  and  the 
nurse  came  briskly  into  the  room. 

"I  am  sorry  to  turn  you  out,  Mr.  Leighton,  but 
you  've  already  far  over-stayed  your  time,"  she  said. 
"I  '11  let  you  know  what  time  you  may  come  to- 
morrow." 

The  Judge  glared  at  her. 

"He  '11  come  when  he  likes  and  stay  as  long  as 
he  likes!"  he  sputtered.  "You — you — Jezebel! 
Whose  house  is  this,  anyway,  yours  or  mine1?"  He 
put  out  a  hand  to  Dick.  "You  '11  come  early,  won't 
you*?" 

"Of  course,"  Dick  promised.  "I  '11  see  you  by 
eleven,  anyway." 

But  he  was  mistaken.  It  was  barely  eight  o'clock 
when  Miriam,  a  weeping,  swollen-eyed  Miriam,  ap- 
peared at  his  rooms.  She  carried  a  brown  paper  par- 
cel which  she  held  out  to  Dick. 

"The  Judge,  he  says  I  'm  to  bring  you  this  as 
soon  as  ever  he  's  gone,"  she  said,  between  sobs. 
"And  he  says  you  '11  be  comin'  to  live  at  the  house. 
I  '11  have  it  clean  for  you,  Mr.  Dick.  I  '11 — oh, 
God  love  him,  why — "  She  turned  and  fled, 
lumbering  down  the  path  with  awkward  steps,  her 
apron  to  her  eyes. 

The  parcel  contained  a  pair  of  worn,  square-toed 
shoes. 


Ill 

ALL  that  was  conservative  in  the  town  of  Ran- 
dolph resented  the  Flats.  In  the  first  place, 
the  presence  of  the  big  mills  brought  little  if  any 
revenue  to  the  town.  They  were  owned  by  outside 
capital,  and  their  operatives,  while  of  necessity 
resident,  spent  little  or  no  money  north  of  Squatter 
Creek.  The  offerings  of  mail-order  catalogues  held 
out  a  far  more  attractive  lure  than  did  the  show- 
windows  of  the  Full  Value  Department  Store;  and 
the  Cooperative  Grocery,  receiving  its  stock  in  bulk 
from  the  mill  corporation,  was  enabled  to  undercut 
local  prices.  The  number  of  savings  accounts  at 
the  Merchants  and  Mechanics'  Bank  was  negligible, 
if  not  non-existent :  the  cash-register  of  Cory  Jack- 
son and  his  fraternity  consistently  absorbed  any  sur- 
plus wages.  For  the  last  five  years  of  Judge  Ran- 
dolph's life,  the  shallow  marshy  bed  of  the  creek  had 
drawn  as  definite  a  line  between  the  Flats  and  the 
Hill  as  Jean  Ainsworth,  in  her  innocently  crude 
philosophy,  drew  between  good  and  bad. 

The  two  sections  had,  probably,  but  one  mutual 
interest:  their  common  allegiance  to  the  political 

party  which  dominated  that  whole  section  of  the 

28 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  29 

country  and  which  was  represented  locally  by  David 
Ainsworth. 

Ainsworth  owned  a  large  number  of  houses  on  the 
Flats,  and  was,  perhaps,  the  only  person  in  town  not 
connected  with  the  mills  (Cory  Jackson  always  ex- 
cepted)  to  derive  any  substantial  income  from  that 
source.  He  accepted  the  support  of  the  workers  in 
the  same  spirit  as  that  in  which  he  accepted  their 
rents — as  due  him  at  certain  specified  times.  Which 
was  a  very  comfortable  way  of  looking  at  it,  but  one 
to  which  exception  could  undoubtedly  be  taken. 
That  Jackson  himself  had  begun  to  question  it,  more 
or  less  openly,  might  have  been  regarded  as  signifi- 
cant if  one  took  into  consideration  the  fact  that  he 
was  not  only  the  owner  of  a  prosperous  saloon,  but 
also  that  he  and  one  or  two  others  formed  the  hub 
around  which  the  wheel  of  life  on  the  Flats  revolved. 

The  most  important  of  Jackson's  henchmen  was 
Bill  Murray,  head  teamster  at  the  mills,  and,  next 
to  Jackson  himself,  easily  the  most  influential  man 
downtown.  Not  even  by  the  most  ardent  of  his  ad- 
mirers had  Bill  ever  been  accounted  handsome.  His 
features  were  lean  and  saturnine.  His  mouth  had 
a  slant  at  one  corner  that  gave  his  face  a  lopsided 
appearance,  emphasized  by  the  absence  of  the  lobe 
of  his  right  ear,  which  had  been  snipped  off  by  a 
bullet  intended  to  end  his  career. 

Bill  was  always  getting  hurt.     His  muscular  body 


30  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

bore  innumerable  scars.  He  was  known  as  a  "trouble- 
maker," a  somewhat  unjust  classification,  since  he 
himself  never  actually  made  trouble;  he  merely 
watched  for  it  and,  when  he  found  it,  plunged  into 
it  with  joyous  abandon.  A  fight,  any  kind  of  a  fight, 
was  as  meat  and  drink  to  him.  He  could  not  see 
two  school-boys  scuffling,  without  edging  toward 
them  in  the  yearning  hope  that  somebody  might  take 
up  the  quarrel  of  one  or  the  other  and  thus  give  him 
a  chance  to  "mix  in." 

He  drank  hard  and  steadily,  but  this  habit  had 
never  once  kept  him  away  from  his  job  at  the  mills. 
It  was  only  when  he  had  indulged  too  freely  in  his 
favorite  form  of  recreation  that  he  failed  to  punch 
the  time  clock  at  the  usual  hour. 

His  most  recent  injury  was  a  knife  thrust  that  had 
laid  his  left  forearm  open  from  elbow  to  wrist,  nar- 
rowly missing  an  'artery.  The  resultant  loss  of 
blood  had  weakened  him  a  good  deal,  and  the 
doctor,  fearing  possible  complications,  had  ordered 
him  to  keep  to  his  bed  for  a  few  days. 

"Sure,  I  know  who  did  it !  I  '11  lay  for  him  some 
time  when  I  've  got  the  use  of  my  fin  again  and  beat 
his  head  off,"  he  told  Dick  cheerfully.  "He 
had  n't  no  call  to  use  a  sticker,  anyways;  it  was 
just  a  friendly  little  fight."  The  "friendly  little 
fight"  had  involved  a  dozen  men,  three  of  whom 
had  required  medical  attention;  but  Bill  was  an 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  31 

optimist.  "Doc  says  I  can  go  back  to  work  Mon- 
day, so  it  won't  be  long  afore  I  can  fix  the  skunk," 
he  added.  "Doc  's  a  good  sort,  Leigh  ton.  You 
and  him 's  about  the  only  reg'lar  fellers  on  the  other 
side  of  the  creek" — he  pronounced  it  "crick" — "as 
I  can  see.  I  could  've  laid  here  till  I  rotted  afore 
any  the  rest  of  'em  'd  come  over.  He  '11  be  in 
pretty  soon.  Jess,  she 's  gone  home  to  see  her 
mother,  and  the  doc  's  been  mighty  white.  He  's 
a  dam'  good  sort.  The  boys  all  like  him." 

It  was  not  strange  that  Doctor  Evans  should  be 
popular  downtown  as  well  as  in  the  better  district 
of  Randolph.  A  homely  little  man,  frank  to  the 
point  of  bluntness,  sturdy,  resolute,  he  went  un- 
hesitatingly when  and  where  he  was  needed,  an- 
swering the  summons  to  attend  a  poverty-stricken 
farmer  or  laborer  from  whom  he  would  never 
receive  a  penny,  as  promptly  as  he  went  to  the  house 
of,  for  example,  Squire  Moore.  Rich  and  poor 
were  all  alike  to  him;  his  services  were  given  as 
gladly  to  one  class  as  to  the  other.  If  a  patient 
could  not  pay  for  medicines,  the  little  doctor  had 
them  charged  to  his  own  account.  He  was  quick, 
resourceful,  tireless.  And  he  was  afraid  of  nothing 
and  nobody. 

Bill  Murray  had  reason  to  be  grateful  to  him. 
On  many  occasions  he  had  patched  the  teamster  up, 
freely  dispensing  medicine  and  good  advice.  Bill 


32  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

took  the  medicine  and  placidly  disregarded  the 
advice. 

"He  told  me  yesterday,  Jess  and  me  'd  ought  to 
move.  He  says  this  place  ain't  fit  for  a  pig  to  live 
in.  And" — the  crooked  mouth  twisted  into  a  sar- 
donic grin — "I  tells  him  we  ain't  aimin'  to  keep 
pigs,  Jess  an'  me  ain't.  Still,  he  's  more  'n  two 
thirds  right  about  the  place;  it  is  lousy,  ain't  it?" 

Dick  admitted  that  he  had  seen  more  desirable 
residences.  Indeed,  as  he  looked  about  him,  he 
wondered  that  human  beings  could  live  in  such 
abominable  surroundings.  There  seemed  to  be 
absolutely  no  reason  or  excuse  for  the  squalid 
dilapidation  of  the  place.  Built  on  the  side  of  a 
hill,  the  house  was  one  of  four  "three  families," 
each  less  prepossessing  than  its  fellows.  Window- 
frames  and  door-casings  leaned  awry;  ceilings  were 
cracked  and  seamed;  and  great  patches  of  plaster 
had  fallen  from  them  and  from  the  walls.  The 
sanitary  conditions  were  shocking. 

At  the  back  the  ground  rose  in  a  gradual  slope 
to  the  summit  of  the  low  hill,  from  which,  during 
every  storm,  the  rain  and  drainage  water  ran  down, 
collecting  in  numerous  depressions  and  forming 
slimy  mud  that  never  really  dried  out.  Refuse  of 
every  description — old  clothes,  broken  bottles,  tin 
cans,  decaying  vegetable  matter — had  been  dumped 
indiscriminately.  The  whole  block  was  a  breeding- 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  33 

place  for  disease,  and  the  slightest  reference  to  it 
was  sufficient  to  arouse  the  ire  of  Doctor  Evans, 
who  considered,  and  had  no  hesitancy  in  openly 
declaring,  that  its  existence  was  a  disgrace  to  the 
town. 

"I  've  walked  into  this  pest  hole  for  the  last  time, 
Bill,"  he  announced,  when  he  appeared,  just  as  Dick 
was  about  to  take  leave  of  Murray.  "I  've  done  all 
the  talking  I  propose  to  do;  I  mean  to  act." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Doc*?"  Bill  wanted 
to  know. 

"You'll  see,"  returned  the  doctor  grimly;  and 
Cory  Jackson,  who  had  come  in  with  him,  grinned 
sympathetically  at  Murray. 

"Doc  's  got  his  back  up,  Bill,"  he  said.  "You 
an'  Jess  '11  have  to  hunt  new  quarters,  I  guess." 

Evans  turned  to  Dick. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  such  conditions  in  a  sup- 
posedly civilized  community,  Leighton*?"  he  de- 
manded. "Why,  they  're  rotten — just  simply 
rotten!  The  miracle  is  that  an  epidemic  hasn't 
started  here  long  ago.  If  it  ever  does,  it  will  wipe 
out  the  town.  I  've  talked  and  argued  until  I  'm 
black  in  the  face,  and  not  a  thing  has  been  done. 
Why,  good  heavens!" — the  doctor  was  warming  to 
his  subject — "just  suppose  somebody  came  down 
with  typhoid  or  smallpox.  How  long  do  you  think 
it  would  take  the  contagion  to  spread?  And  how 


34  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

could  we  deal  with  it?  No  hospital  nearer  than 
Cresston — and  they  won't  take  contagious  cases 
there,  anyway — the  worst  sort  of  housing  condi- 
tions downtown  here;  no  proper  sanitation — why, 
the  very  thought  of  what  may  happen  any  day 
makes  my  blood  run  cold!" 

"Does  n't  seem  to  be  runnin'  none  too  cold  now, 
Doc,"  put  in  Murray,  with  a  crooked  smile. 

The  doctor  whirled  on  him. 

"If  fellows  like  you  would  only  help,  instead  of 
hindering,  it  would  be  more  to  your  credit!  But 
you  're  away  all  day'  and  half  the  night,  and  you 
don't  care.  As  long  as  the  place  does  n't  fall  down 
around  your  ears  you  're  satisfied.  There  are  plenty 
of  decent  houses  on  the  other  side  of  the  creek, 
owned  by  men  with  enough  self-respect  to  keep  'em 
in  some  sort  of  repair;  but  you're  too  lazy  and 
slovenly  to  take  the  trouble  to  move!  Suppose 
Jess  came  down  with  pneumonia,  from  standing  on 
that  damp,  moldy  kitchen  floor.  What  would  you 
do  then,  eh?' 

"Take  her  to  Dave  Ainsworth's  new  hospital," 
returned  Murray,  promptly.  "It  '11  be  done  by  the 
time  she  gets  home ;  she  's  goin'  to  stay  in  Cresston 
another  two  weeks,  she  says." 

The  saloon-keeper  brushed  away  a  grin  with  the 
back  of  his  stubby  hand. 

".That's  what  the  hospital's  for,  ain't  it,  Doc1?" 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  35 

he  inquired  gravely;  "to  look  after  the  folks  that 
have  to  live  in  Dave's  rotten,  houses'?  Of  course, 
you  'd  think  it  would  be  cheaper  to  fix  the  houses 
and  put  in  a  drainage  system;  but  maybe  it 
would  n't  be  so  philanthropic.  /  don't  know.  I 
guess  it 's  a  pretty  wise  guy  that  spends  his  money 
on  big  things  that  show  up  well. 

"Of  course,"  he  went  on,  affecting  not  to  notice 
the  doctor's  surprise,  "most  people  think  this  block 
belongs  to  the  Bolton  estate,  but  title  was  passed 
to  it  six  years  ago.  Dave  mebbe  has  reasons  for  not 
havin'  the  deed  recorded,  but  he  owns  it,  all  right; 
that 's  why  the  agent  for  the  estate  don't  mind  your 
writin'  him  you  '11  raise  hell  if  he  don't  fix  it  up." 

Jackson's  bland  and  child-like  smile  added  to  the 
irritation  of  the  doctor,  who  was  aware  that  his 
fulminations  must  have  furnished  considerable 
amusement  to  those  who  knew  him  to  be  closely 
associated  with  Ainsworth  in  the  plans  for  the  new 
hospital.  But  his  discomfiture  lasted  only  a 
moment. 

"I  'm  not  going  to  start  an  argument  with  you, 
Cory,"  he  said.  "It  makes  no  difference  who  the 
owner  is ;  it 's  up  to  him  to  keep  his  property  in 
repair.  Since  he  does  n't  do  it,  it 's  up  to  his  ten- 
ants to  teach  him  common  sense,  if  not  common 
decency,  by  clearing  out  and  leaving  his  houses 
vacant.  I  '11  see  Ainsworth  to-morrow,  and  some- 


36  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

thing  will  be  done  here,  or  I  '11  know  the  reason 
why!" 

"Oh,  he'll  have  a  reason,  Doc,"  Jackson  said 
cheerfully.  "Dave  Ainsworth  always  has  a  reason 
for  the  things  he  don't  do.  Ain't  he  got  a  fine 
brand-new  hospital  just  finished?  Mebbe  he  don't 
want  to  see  it  stand  empty.  Or,  again,  mebbe  he  's 
boostin'  trade  for  you." 

The  doctor  turned  his  back  on  him  and  again 
attacked  the  delighted  Murray. 

"I  warn  you!"  he  said  wrathfully,  "you  can  get 
chopped  up  as  much  as  you  like,  and  have  every 
one  of  the  ten  plagues  of  Egypt  in  succession,  and 
I  won't  set  foot  inside  this  place  to  save  your  life! 
That  goes!  As  for  Dave  Ainsworth," — he  nodded 
fiercely  over  his  shoulder  at  Jackson — "he  '11  fix 
these  houses,  or  I  '11  have  'em  condemned  at  the 
next  meeting  of  the  Town  Board  of  Trustees.  And 
that  goes,  too !"  He  stamped  out. 

"By  jux!  he  means  it,  Bill,"  Jackson  said,  with 
deep  satisfaction.  "He  '11  speak  his  little  piece, 
and  Dave  '11  hem  and  haw  and  make  excuses ;  and 
the  whole  thing  will  get  an  airin'  that  will  cost 
Dave  some  votes  on  the  Hill.  You  'd  better  see 
about  gettin'  moved  to-morrow." 

"Have  you  found  a  place,  Bill*?"  Dick  inquired. 

"Oh,  sure.  Right  nice  house,  above  the  bridge. 
Jess,  she  's  buyin'  new  furniture  for  it  in  Cresston. 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  37 

But  we  did  n't  want  to  move  until  the  doc  come 
over  and  got  mad.  Things  has  been  so  kind  o' 
quiet,  I  was  gettin'  tired  o'  waitin'  till  we  needed 
to  send  for  him.  But  it 's  all  right  now.  You 
spoken  to  Dick,  Cory1?" 

"Not  yet.  Guess  he  don't  need  more  'n  a  hint, 
though,"  drawled  the  saloon-keeper.  "You  know, 
Dick,  some  of  the  boys  've  been  wantin'  to  know 
if  you  'd  make  a'  good  Congressman.  Told  'em  I 
guessed  you  would.  Like  to  talk  it  over  when  you 
got  time."  He  reached  into  his  hip  pocket,  and 
took  out  a  villainous-looking  pipe,  the  deep  bowl 
of  which  he  proceeded  to  fill.  He  struck  a  match 
on  the  leg  of  his  trousers  and  applied  the  flame  to 
the  tobacco. 

"Ought  to — be — easy — enough,"  he  said,  be- 
tween puffs.  "And — good  thing  for  you — mighty 
good  thing.  Think  it  over.  Or — wait.  I  'm 
goin'  back  to  the  joint  now.  Suppose  you  walk 
along  with  me."  He  gave  Murray  a  breezy 
good-by,  and  followed  Dick  down  the  rickety  stairs 
to  the  street. 

"Of  course,"  he  went  on,  as  he  fell  into  step 
beside  the  young  man,  "this  ain't  any  real  news 
to  you.  It 's  been  in  the  air  for  some  time  now, 
and  I  never  heard  there  was  anything  the  matter 
with  your  nose.  It 's  a  grand  little  chance,  and 
you  're  not  the  man  to  let  such  slip.  I  s'pose  it 's 


38  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

all  right  for  me  to  see  the  boys  and  pass  'em  the 
word  to  go  right  ahead,  eh?" 

Dick  shook  his  head. 

"No,  Cory,"  he  said.  "Not  yet.  I— well,  I 
have  n't  quite  made  up  my  mind.  You  '11  have  to 
give  me  a  little  more  time." 

Jackson  stared  at  him  in  undisguised  amazement. 

"More  time"?  Have  n't  made  up  your  mind? 
Why,  man  alive!  what  in  the  name  of  the  sacred 
ring-tailed  monkey  is  there  for  you  to  make  up  your 
mind  about?  You  know,  or  you  ought  to  know, 
that  you  can  lick  Dave  Ains worth,  if  you  put  your 
mind  to  it.  I  ain't  sayin'  it  won't  be  some  scrap; 
but  you  're  not  afraid  to  buck  him,  are  you?" 

"Hardly!"  said  Dick,  and  laughed.  No;  he  was 
not  afraid  of  the  fight,  bitter  though  he  knew  it 
would  be.  Indeed,  his  blood  fairly  tingled  at  the 
thought  of  it.  It  would  be  no  simple,  trivial 
matter,  but  a  real  battle,  in  which  brains  and  per- 
sonality alone  would  count.  Nor  did  he  belittle 
the  magnitude  of  the  opportunities  opening  up  be- 
fore him. 

But  it  was  one  thing  to  run  in  opposition  to 
a  man — any  man — who  was  unsatisfactory  to 
the  rank  and  file  of  the  voters,  and  it  was  quite  an- 
other to  come  out  against  the  father  of  the  girl  he 
loved. 

He  must  lay  the  matter  before  her  in  its  entirety, 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  39 

and  ascertain  her  views,  before  he  gave  to  his  sup- 
porters any  definite  decision. 

"Well,"  prodded  Jackson,  "then  what  in  the 
devil  are  you  hesitatin'  for?  It 's  all  plain,  open 
and  shut.  We  're  goin'  to  fight  Ains worth,  that 's 
sure ;  but  it 's  a  big  question  whether  any  one  but 
you  can  beat  him.  I  don't  know  whether  you  know 
it  or  not,  but  I  had  a  bit  x>f  a  talk  with  Judge  Ran- 
dolph just  before  he  took  sick.  He  never  thought 
much  of  me — you  know  that — but  he  talked  to 
me.  He  was  satisfied  you  could  win,  if  you  had 
the  right  backin'.  He  wanted  you  to  win." 

"Yes,"  said  Dick,  "I  believe  he  did." 

"Well,  the  Judge  knew  what  he  was  about.  He 
worked  over  you  and  groomed  you,  and  got  you  all 
ready;  and  now  you  say  you  ain't  ready!  What 
am  I  to  tell  the  boys'?" 

"Tell  'em  what  I  've  told  you :  that  I  want  a 
little  more  time  to  think  it  over." 

The  saloon-keeper  shrugged. 

"Oh,  all  right!  If  you  don't  know  your  own 
business,  nobody  else  does,  I  guess.  Only — well, 
never  mind.  Come  on  in  a  minute,  will  you*?" 

They  had  reached  the  corner,  near  the  lower 
bridge,  where  the  low  brick  building  known  as 
"Jackson's  place"  -fronted  the  dirty  street.  Cory 
Jackson  had  never  gone  in  for  the  ornate  decoration 
with  which  unsuccessful  rivals  sought  to  lure  his 


40  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

trade  away  from  him.  Plate-glass,  glaring  electric 
lights,  and  brass  trimmings  were  conspicuous 
by  their  absence.  "Comfort,"  was  his  motto. 
"That 's  what  the  boys  want,  and  what  I  give  'em." 
He  had  been  in  the  business  long  enough  to  know. 

The  main  room  was  of  good  size  and  well  lighted. 
The  walls,  done  in  an  agreeable  shade  of  green,  held 
a  number  of  pictures,  the  subjects  of  which  made 
their  appeal  to  a  definite,  if  undiscriminating  taste. 
The  bar  itself  stretched  across  the  entire  end  of  the 
room  opposite  to  the  door;  and  there  were  several 
small  tables,  one  littered  with  papers  and  flanked 
by  easy-chairs.  The  floor  was  sanded.  Jackson 
held  that  this,  too,  made  for  the  comfort  of  his 
patrons. 

As  he  and  Dick  stopped  outside  the  swinging 
doors,  the  sound  of  a  sudden,  commotion  within 
came  to  their  ears:  a  sharp  warning  cry,  a  volley 
of  oaths,  the  thump  and  grind  of  heavy  boots  on  the 
grit  of  the  floor. 

"Hell !"  ejaculated  Jackson. 

Dick  pushed  open  the  doors  and  stepped  into  the 
room.  At  one  end  of  the  bar  a  crowd  of  men 
ducked  and  jostled,  each  intent  on  getting  behind 
somebody  else.  The  middle  of  the  room  was 
vacant,  save  for  the  swaying  figure  of  a  huge  Swede. 
The  man  was  waving  a  revolver  back  and  forth 
between  the  panicky  crowd  and  the  other  end  of  the 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  41 

bar,  over  which  the  close-cropped  head  of  the  bar- 
tender, Bud  McFee,  showed  at  extremely  brief  in- 
tervals, as  he  raised  it  up  to  express  an  instalment  of 
his  unqualified  opinion  of  the  creator  of  the  dis- 
turbance. The  Swede's  eyes  were  filmed  and  hazy ; 
his  face  was  darkly  red.  He  was  very  drunk  in- 
deed. 

"Look  out!"  yelled  the  bartender,  catching  a 
glimpse  of  the  two  men  at  the  door.  "He  's  crazy 
as  a  bedbug!  He  '11  plug  you  sure!" 

The  Swede  swung  unsteadily  round  and  found 
himself  confronted  by  the  sheriff. 

"You  ban  get  out!"  he  roared.     "You — " 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Olsen,"  Dick  said  pleasantly. 
"You  're  making  a  lot  too  much  noise.  And  here — 
give  me  that  pop-gun  before  you  hurt  somebody 
with  it." 

The  Swede  blinked  at  him»uncertainly ;  the  barrel 
of  the  revolver  wavered  toward  him.  There  was  a 
tense  silence;  no  one  moved;  the  crowd  seemed 
hardly  to  breathe.  Then : 

"Come  across,"  Dick  said,  still  pleasantly. 
"You  're  making  an  awful  fool  of  yourself,  you 
know." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and,  after  a  second  of 
hesitation,  the  Swede  meekly  put  the  revolver  into 
it.  Dick  shoved  the  weapon  into  his  hip  pocket. 
"Now  go  home  and  sober  up,"  he  ordered.  "Don't 


42  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

stand  there  looking  like  a  sick  sheep;  clear  out! 
You  're  drunk." 

"Ah  ban  all  right,"  mumbled  the  man.  "Ah  ban 
all  right,  Ah  tell  you."  But  he  went,  neverthe- 
less, and  a  sigh  of  relief  stirred  through  the  room 
when  the  doors  swung  shut  behind  him. 

Dick  turned  to  the  bartender. 

"What 's  all  this,  McFee?"  he  demanded  sharply. 
"You  know  better  than  to  sell  liquor  to  a  man  with 
a  jag  like  that!" 

"He  didn't  get  it  here;  honest  to  Gawd  he 
didn't,  Dick,"  protested  the  barkeeper  anxiously. 
"That  was  what  all  the  row  was  about.  He  come 
in  here  and  hollered  for  booze,  and  I  would  n't  sell 
him  none.  Then  he  pulls  a  gun  and  says  he  's  goin' 
to  shoot  up  the  whole  works." 

"That 's  the  truth,  Dick,"  came  in  a  chorus. 
"It 's  just  like  Bud  says." 

"All  right.  Next  time  he  comes  in,  Bud,  you 
tell  him  I  want  to  see  him,  will  you?" 

"I  '11  do  it.  And,  say," — the  barkeeper's  eyes 
went  to  Jackson,  who  nodded — "I  caPlate  this  calls 
for  a  little'  somethin'  on  the  house.  What  '11  you 
have,  gentlemen1?" 

Under  cover  of  the  general  move  forward,  Cory 
Jackson  spoke  to  Dick  in  a  low  tone. 

"How  about  a  few  minutes  in  the  den,  eh,  Dick? 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  43 

One  or  two  of  the  boys  are  in  there,  and  this  looks 
like  a  good  time  to  drop  a  hint  or  so." 

But  Dick  shook  his  head  decidedly. 

"I  want  two  weeks  more,"  he  said.  "Then 
I  '11  know,  and  I  '11  let  you  know.  Leave  it  at  that, 
please." 

Before  two  weeks  were  up  he  would  have  seen 
Jean,  talked  with  her.  Until  he  knew  just  what 
her  views  were,  he  could  and  would  do  nothing. 


IV 

THE    front    door    slammed.     Heels    clumped 
noisily  up  the  stairs  and  along  the  polished 
parquet  of  the  hall;  and  the  door  of  David  Ains- 
worth's  study  was  pushed:  open  with  such  force  that 
it  swung  back  against  the  wall  with  a  crash. 

The  Congressional  Representative  for  the  Second 
District  was  tall  and  rather  sparely  built.  He 
carried  himself  impressively,  as  if  aware  of  his 
importance  in  the  eyes  of  the  townspeople.  In  his 
younger  days,  there  had  been  a  certain  hearty  cor- 
diality in  his  manner,  a  certain  shade  of  benevo- 
lence in  his  smile,  which,  as  he  became  every  year 
more  and  more  assured  and  self -centered,  had 
gradually  disappeared,  giving  place  to  a  stiffly  dig- 
nified bearing,  an  aloof  reserve,  which  demanded 
that  he  be  regarded  and  approached  with  a  degree 
of  deferential  respect.  His  clean-shaven  face,  thin- 
lipped,  rather  narrow  at  the  cheek-bones,  was 
austere  in  color  and  expression.  His  eyes  were  a 
cold,  impenetrable  blue — hard  surfaces  that  re- 
flected no  shadow  of  emotion.  It  was  not  his  way 
to  show  emotion.  He  regarded  it  an.d  condemned 
it  as  weakness. 

44 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  45 

At  his  son's  noisy  entrance,  he  looked  up  with 
an  annoyed  frown. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  coming  into  my  study 
that  way*?"  he  demanded  sternly.  "This  is  not 
Jackson's  saloon." 

The  boy's  lips,  parted  for  eager  speech,  com- 
pressed. He  slouched  to  a  chair  beside  the  desk 
and  flung  himself  into  it. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  he  said  sullenly.  "I  'm  sorry. 
I  was  in  a  hurry." 

Ainsworth  was  in  no  way  mollified.  He  pushed 
aside  the  papers  on  which  he  had  been  working, 
and  contemplated  his  son  with  cold  displeasure. 

"Tommy,"  he  said,  "do  you  know  that  you  're 
drinking  too  much?  I  've  noticed  lately  that — " 

"Aw,  rats!"  Tommy  interrupted  roughly.  "Of 
course  I've  been  drinking!  Do  you  think  I  can 
hang  over  a  bar  half  the  night  and  not  drink*? 
How  much  use  would  I  be,  do  you  suppose,  if  I 
ordered  ginger-pop  and  barley  water*?" 

"It 's  not  necessary  to  make  a  beast  of  yourself! 
Understand  me,  Tommy;  I  won't  have  it.  If  you 
can't  drink — " 

Tommy  interrupted  again,  rudely: 

"Never  mind  the  temperance  lecture  now,  please ! 
This  is  n't  the  time  and  I  'm  not  in  the  mood  for 
it,  so  stow  it !  There  's  something  a  lot  more  im- 
portant than  my  -habits  to  be  discussed." 


46  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

The  insolence  of  the  speech  was  so  incredible 
that,  for  a  moment,  Ainsworth  was  at  a  loss  for 
words.  Then  a  second  and  more  searching  glance 
at  his  son's  face  showed  him  that  the  boy  was  under 
strong  excitement  and,  further,  that  he  was  in  no 
condition  to  be  reprimanded. 

Tommy  was  not  exactly  drunk,  but  he  was  cer- 
tainly not  sober.  There  was  a  bloodshot  glaze 
over  his  eyes  and  a  smolder  under  them.  His 
usually  clear  skin  was  darkly  flushed,  and  here  and 
there  mottled  with  hot  patches  of  red.  He  kept 
moving  his  hands  nervously,  twisting  his  fingers 
together  and  every  now  and  then  running  them 
through  the  rumpled  disorder  of  his  fair  hair.  The 
strong  Irght  -from  the  reading-lamp-  on  the  desk 
showed  in  his  face  lines  that  should  not  have  been 
in  the  face  of  a  boy  barely  twenty-one ;  showed,  too, 
the  pouchiness  of  the  flesh  under  the  eye  sockets, 
and  revealed  the  unsteadiness  of  the  lips,  the  slight 
muscular  quivering  of  the  weak  chin. 

"Well?"  he  demanded  with  a  truculence  born 
half  of  the  liquor  he  had  drunk  and  half  of  his 
excitement;  "do  you  want  to  talk,  or  shall  I?" 

Ainsworth  curtly  motioned  him  to  speak,  and  he 
hitched  forward,  his  eyelids  snapping  rapidly  up 
and  down. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "there  's  a  sweet-scented  job  on 
foot,  one  that  '11  make  you  anxious  to  finish  the 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  47 

hospital  so  that  you  can  put  a  few  picked  patients 
into  it.  That  bunch  down  there" — he  jerked  his 
thumb  over  his  shoulder — "are  planning  to  run  Dick 
Leighton  for  Congress!" 

The  tension  of  Ainsworth's  pose  relaxed;  he 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  smiled. 

"My  dear  Tommy,"  he  said,  "that  is  a  most 
wildly  improbable  tale." 

"Is  it?  Well,  if  the  job  comes  off,  don't  say 
I  did  n't  warn  you.  If  you  'd  been  in  Jackson's 
to-night  and  heard  what  I  heard,  maybe  you 
would  n't  be  so  easy  about  it." 

"Just  what  did  you  hear?"  Ains worth  was  still 
smiling;  the  idea  t'hat  Dick  Leighton  or  any  other 
man  could  be  considered  in  connection  with  the 
Congressional  nomination,  was  too  preposterous  to 
be  taken  seriously;  but  he  felt  that  Tommy  should 
have  a  hearing.  "Just  what  did  you  hear4?"  he 
repeated,  caressing  his  chin  with  his  long  fingers. 

"Well,  I  heard  Bud  McFee  say  that  when  an  old 
cow  stopped  giving  milk  she  was  no  use  in  a  dairy 
herd,  and  that  it  was  time  to  -give  her  stall  to  some 
promising  young  heifer;  that's  one  thing  I  heard." 

"And  what,"  inquired  Ainsworth,  "has  that  to 
do  with  me?  What  is  the  connection?" 

"Also,"  Tommy  proceeded,  without  answering 
the  question,  "I  heard  that  speeches  did  n't  purify 
a  river,  nor  promises  build  a  post-office." 


48  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"Ah!"   said   Ainsworth.     "But   I    explained—" 

"They  seemed  to  think  that  explanations  were  n't 
very  effective  dredges,"  interrupted  Tommy. 
"They  're  sore,  the  whole  bunch  of  'em,  sore  as 
scalded  pups.  It  was  six  years  ago  that  you 
promised  to  get  an  appropriation  for  a  new  post- 
office  building,  and  they  claim  you  have  n't  done 
any  more  about  that  than  you  've  done  about  getting 
the  Squatter  Creek  proposition  into  the  Rivers  and 
Harbors  Bill — and  you  were  on  the  committee, 
too." 

"But  these  things  can't  be  done  in  a  minute," 
Ainsworth  said  in  annoyance.  "They  ought  to 
understand  that  it  takes  time — " 

Tommy  interrupted  again. 

"You  don't  have  to  argue  with  me,  you  know, 
Dad,"  he  said.  "I  don't  give  a  whoop  in  Hades 
whether  we  get  a  new  post-office  or  not,  and  the 
creek  can  be  solid  mud  for  all  I  care;  I  don't  have 
to  live  on  the  Flats.  I  'm  just  telling  you  what 
Cory  Jackson  and  his  crowd  think  about  it.  Have 
you  seen  'The  Banner  of  Red'  lately?" 

"Hardly.  My  time  is  too  fully  occupied  for 
me  to  waste  it  in  reading  trash  calculated  to  appeal 
only  to  the  lowest  intelligence.  Tommy,  I  am 
neither  an  ignorant  foreigner,  nor  a  citizen  who 
thinks  that  the  world  owes  him  a  living  for  which 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  49 

he  is  unwilling  to  work.  The  paper  you  mention 
has  no  standing  whatever." 

Tommy  shrugged. 

"It  hasn't?"  he  said.  "Well,  maybe  not;  and 
maybe  it  is  'calculated  to  appeal  only  to  the  lowest 
intelligence.'  But — damn  it! —  isn't  that  the  in- 
telligence of  the  average  voter?  Dad,  you  're 
looking  at  conditions  as  they  were  here  when  you 
first  went  to  Congress.  They  're  different  now — 
altogether  different.  And  'The  Banner'  has  more 
influence  than  Sam  McAllister's  paper  will  ever 
have  in  this  world.  For  one  copy  of  'The  Regis- 
ter' sold  down  the  valley  there  are  twenty  of  'The 
Banner.'  I  picked  up  a  couple  and  looked  'em 
over,  the  other  night.  There  's  an  editorial  in  the 
last  issue  about  the  drainage  business ;  and  there  's 
a  whole  column  about  the  post-office.  They  want 
to  know  why,  if  Cresston  gets  forty-five  thousand 
dollars  for  a  new  building,  Randolph  gets  nothing 
but  hot  air.  And  all  through  the  paper,  stuck  in 
between  paragraphs  and  among  the  advertisements, 
there  are  cute  little  slams  at  you :  'If  you  're  afraid 
of  getting  typhoid,  don't  bother  your  Congressman 
about  getting  Squatter  Creek  dredged.  He  lives 
on  a  bluff.'  'Do  we  send  Ains worth  to  Congress 
for  his  health,  or  ours?' — things  like  that.  And 
then  there  's  one  that  reads :  'If  a  sheriff  will  fight 
for  the  good  of  his  county  at  home,  would  n't  he 


50  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

fight  for  it  in  Washington?' — or  something  of  the 
kind. 

"I  know  those  are  just  little  things,  but  they 
stack  up;  and  they  gave  me  a  hint.  I  started  to 
nose  around.  And  what  they  're  saying  down  at 
Jackson's  is  just  a  sample  of  what  they  're  spreading 
all  over  the  district.  But  that  does  n't  so  much 
matter.  Randolph  swings  the  county  and  the 
county  swings  the  district.  What 's  going  on  right 
here  in  town  is  the  thing  to  steer  by.  And  I  tell 
you," — Tommy  slapped  the  arm  of  his  chair  with 
his  open  palm — "Jackson  and  his  bunch  have  got 
their  little  tomahawks  out,  and  they  're  going  on 
the  war-path  with  the  whole  tribe  behind  'em." 

The  smile  had  faded  from  David  Ainsworth's 
face. 

"Tommy,  are  you  sure  of  what  you  're  talking 
about*?"  he  asked.  "Granting  that  Jackson  and 
that  roughneck  crowd  of  his  intend  to  make  us 
trouble,  do  you  actually  believe  we  have  anything 
to  fear  from  them1?" 

"I  don't  believe  it;  I  know  it!  If  they  don't  run 
Leighton  next  term,  it  will  be  because  he  withdraws 
his  name.  Which  is  very  likely — I  don't  think! 
Oh,  he  's  smart !  He  's  got  Murray  and  McFee 
and  Cory  Jackson — all  the  men  with  influence 
downtown — eating  out  of  his  hand.  They  think 
he  's  the  only  thing  that  ever  happened,  and  they  '11 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  51 

do  anything  he  tells  'em  to.  How  much  real 
trouble  has  there  been  over  there  since  he  's  been 
sheriff?  Not  a  darned  bit !  He 's  got  'em  all 
buffaloed !  Why,  did  n't  he  walk  right  up  to  a 
big  drunken  Swede  who  started  to  shoot  up  the 
whole  shebang,  the  other  day,  and  take  his  gun 
away  from  him1?  And  didn't  the  Swede  let  him 
doit?" 

"If  this  is  true,"  Ainsworth  said  with  ominous 
calm,  "we  '11  give  Mr.  Leighton  something  to  think 
about  on  his  own  account." 

Tommy  understood  the  implication. 

"Oh,  words  won't  make  any  difference  to  him," 
he  shrugged.  "What  does  he  care  for  'The  Regis- 
ter"? Nobody  downtown  would  believe  anything 
McAllister  said  against  him;  he's  too  popular. 
And  he  's  pretty  well  liked  around  here,  too.  Squire 
Moore  told  Clark  Jenkins  in  the  post-office  the 
other  day  that  Leighton  was  by  all  odds  the  best 
sheriff  the  county  'd  ever  had,  and  that  he,  for  one, 
expected  big  things  of  him.  With  the  mill  dis- 
trict solid,  and  the  Hill  divided — well  how  does  it 
look  to  you?" 

Ainsworth's  eyes  had  narrowed;  his  lips  were 
pressed  tightly  together.  It  was  fully  five  minutes 
before  he  spoke.  Then: 

"Has  McAllister  any  idea  of  what  is  going  on?" 
he  asked. 


52  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"Sam  McAllister  never  had  an  idea  in  his  life, 
unless  somebody  drilled  a  hole  in  his  head  and 
blasted  out  some  of  the  solid  ivory.  You  've  had 
everything  your  own  way  so  long  that  all  he  thinks 
he  has  to  do  is  to  talk  wise  and  doll  himself  up  to 
look  pretty  to  the  ladies.  A  pink  tea  is  about  his 
speed,  and  we  're  in  for  a  fight — a  fight,  do  you  un- 
derstand, Dad*?" 

"We  shall  be  ready  for  it." 

"And  that  is  n't  all.     There  's  Jean." 

"What 's  that?" 

"Oh,  he  's  been  playing  around  New  York  with 
her/' 

"Jean?" 

"Sure.  One  of  the  Cummings  boys  was  there  on 
business  for  the  old  man,  and  saw  'em,  Leighton  and 
Jean,  strolling  down  the  street  together  as  chummy 
as  you  please.  I  should  think  she  would  have  more 
sense.  It 's  a  good  thing  the  hospital 's  about  done," 
Tommy  added  maliciously;  "you  '11  have  her  home 
pretty  soon  where  you  can  keep  an  eye  on  her." 

Ainsworth  ignored  this. 

"See  McAllister  in  the  morning,"  he  ordered 
crisply,  "and  have  him  come  over  here  at  eleven 
o'clock.  I  'm  inclined  to  think  that  you  've  ex- 
aggerated the  importance  of  this,  but  it  will  do  no 
harm  to  look  into  it.  But  if  it  is  true,  if  Leighton 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  53 

actually  does  contemplate  such  a  trick,  he  '11  regret 
it." 

"We'll  get  his  pelt,"  Tommy  nodded,  "but 
we  've  got  to  get  busy.  The  gall  of  him !  Can 
you  beat  it1?  Well — "  He  yawned  noisily, 
stretched  his  arms  above  his  head,  and  rose,  a  little 
unsteadily.  "Me  for  bed,"  he  said.  "Good  night, 
Dad." 

Ainsworth  detained  him  a  moment. 

"Tommy,  you  've  done  a  good  piece  of  work  to- 
night," he  said,  "and  I  want  you  to  know  that  I 
appreciate  it.  Whether  or  not  there  is  any  foun- 
dation for  this  seemingly  improbable  idea  of  yours,  it 
shows  at  least  that  you  are  keeping  your  eyes  and 
ears  open.  You  are  getting  to  be  of  real  help  to  me, 
my  son,  a  valuable  assistant." 

High  praise,  this,  and  Tommy  straightened  up 
with  a  thrill  of  gratified  pride. 

"I  'm  awfully  glad  that  you  're  pleased,  Dad,"  he 
said  earnestly.  "And  I  'm  going  to  be  of  more  help, 
too;  you  '11  see.  I  've  got  a  bit  of  influence  myself 
downtown;  the  boys  '11  listen  to  me  now.  Most  of 
'em  seem  to  like  me  pretty  well,  too.  If  there  's  any- 
thing  to  be  done,  you  can  count  on  me."  He  started 
for  the  door,  paused,  came  slowly  back. 

"This  business  about  Leigh  ton  seeing  Jean  in  New 
York,"  he  said.  "Jean 's  my  sister,  and  I  'm 
mighty  fond  of  her.  I  don't  half  like  her  meeting 


54  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

the  pup.     Of  course,  she  doesn't  realize  what  he 
is—" 

"She  will,"  Ainsworth  assured  him.  "I  should  n't 
worry  about  that  part  of  it,  if  I  were  you,  Tommy. 
Probably  the  meeting  was  entirely  accidental.  Jean 
is  your  sister,  but" — he  smiled  with  true  Ainsworth 
arrogance — "she  is  also  my  daughter.  The  idea  that 
she  would  ever  consider  Leighton  except  as  an  in- 
ferior, is  pure  nonsense." 


IN  a  small  town  the  lines  of  caste  are  often  only 
vaguely  denned ;  nevertheless,  they  exist.  And 
the  Ainsworths  had  always  been  on  a  higher  social 
plane  than  the  Leightons. 

Dick's  own  people,  while  of  good  stock,  had  al- 
ways been  poor.  He  had  been  orphaned  while  still 
in  high  school,  and  had  found  it  difficult  to  complete 
his  course.  Had  it  not  been  for  Judge  Gordon  Ran- 
dolph, he  probably  would  have  been  unable  to  finish 
it  at  all.  But  the  Judge  had  taken  an  interest  in 
him,  put  him  in  the  way  of  making  a  little  money 
from  time  to  time,  and  upon  his  graduation  had  given 
him  a  chance  to  read  law  in  the  dingy  little  office 
with  the  stained  and  splintered  floor  where  for  three 
generations  the  Randolph  men  had  maintained  the 
prestige  of  the  name  on  the  small  black-lettered  sign. 

At  first  Dick  had  swept  out,  dusted,  run  errands 
answered  the  telephone — and  studied.  Then  he  had 
filed  papers,  typed  letters  and  briefs,  looked  up  ref- 
erences— and  studied.  Later,  under  the  Judge's 
tutelage,  he  had  prepared  a  few  cases,  written  a  brief 
or  two,  and  assumed  the  full  duties  of  confidential 

55 


56  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

assistant.  He  kept  on  studying,  and,  after  having 
been  nearly  five  years  with  the  Judge,  passed  his  bar 
examinations. 

"So  far,  so  good,"  Gordon  Randolph  had  said  to 
him  when  he  presented  the  report  of  the  examiners. 
"You  've  made  a  good  start,  Dick,  but  it 's  only  a 
start.  Don't  get  the  notion  that  you  know  all  the 
law  there  is,  just  because  a  few  muddleheads  have 
seen  fit  to  license  you  to  rob  people  legally.  You 
don't  know  a  thing — understand"? — not  a  thing. 
Go  ahead  on  that  assumption,  and  maybe  you  '11  get 
somewhere." 

Dick  had  continued  to  act  as  the  Judge's  assistant, 
and  he  had  kept  right  on  studying.  He  had  always 
been  ambitious,  but  until  about  his  twenty-fifth  year, 
his  desires  had  centered  on  no  definite  object;  he  had 
possessed  but  the  haziest  conception  of  his  ultimate 
goal.  Jean  Ainsworth's  departure  for  New  York,  to 
take  up  a  course  of  study  in  one  of  the  large  hospi- 
tals, had  stimulated  him  to  more  concentrated  and 
analytical  thought,  had  brought  home  to  him  the 
realization  of  how  conspicuously  she  loomed  in  his 
scheme  of  things. 

He  and  the  daughter  of  the  Congressman  had 
grown  up  together,  and  habit  has  a  treacherous  way 
of  masking  important  things  with  a  veil  of  the 
commonplace.  Jean,  living  in  Randolph,  within  ten 
minutes'  walk  of  his  own  home,  or  even  more  quickly 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  57 

accessible  by  telephone,  had  seemed  altogether  a  dif- 
ferent Jean  from  the  girl  from  whom  he  was  sepa- 
rated by  hundreds  of  miles.  Different,  and  infinitely 
desirable.  It  was  then  that  the  haze  had  cleared, 
and  he  had  recognized  his  ambition  to  be  threefold : 
money,  position — Jean  Ainsworth.  If  he  could  se- 
cure the  first  two,  he  would  have  at  least  a  fighting 
chance  for  the  third,  the  all-important.  Without 
Jean  nothing  really  counted. 

Money?  He  knew  that  as  Judge  Randolph's 
partner  and  successor,  he  could  make  money.  Po- 
sition1? The  word,  to  him,  involved  power,  the 
power  to  move  men,  to  speak  with  the  voice  of  au- 
thority in  public  affairs,  to  be  a  leader  rather  than  a 
follower.  He  meant  to  succeed;  and  from  the  mo- 
ment that  he  realized  clearly  what  it  was  that  he 
wanted,  his  thoughts  and  energies  were  bent  in  that 
direction  and  that  only. 

He  was  popular  downtown;  "the  boys"  all  liked 
him.  His  election  to  the  office  of  sheriff  had  been 
practically  unanimous.  David  Ainsworth  had  re- 
garded him  in  the  light  of  an  inoffensive  young  man 
who,  later  on,  might  be  useful  and  amenable  to  sug- 
gestions, if  rightly  put ;  and  had  therefore  offered  no 
opposition  to  Dick's  candidacy.  In  Randolph,  the 
residential  section,  known  as  "The  Hill,"  was  de- 
cidedly conservative.  It  set  its  face  against  any 
change  that  seemed  at  all  radical,  accepting,  almost 


58  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

without  question,  the  opinions  formulated  for  it  by 
David  Ainsworth.  Ainsworth's  dignity,  his  impres- 
sive arrogance  appealed  to  its  habit  of  thinking,  if 
its  sheep-like  following  of  the  Congressman's  lead, 
as  indicated  through  the  medium  of  McAllister's 
newspaper,  "The  Register,"  could  be  called 
thinking. 

"The  Register,"  owned,  published,  and  largely 
written  by  Samuel  McAllister,  wore  the  garments  of 
Esau,  but  its  voice  was  unmistakably  the  voice  of 
Jacob.  Nobody  paid  any  serious  attention  to  "The 
Banner  of  Red."  "The  Banner"  went  in  for  sensa- 
tionalism, and  was  notoriously  careless  in  its  state- 
ment of  facts.  Its  spelling,  too,  was  apt  to  be  orig- 
inal, and  in  any  difference  of  opinion  "The  Register" 
made  use  of  that  most  deadly  of  all  weapons,  ridi- 
cule. 

More  than  once,  when  "The  Banner"  had  been 
absolutely  right  and  "The  Register"  wrong,  McAllis- 
ter had  merely  dilated  on  the  absurd  typographical 
errors  in  the  smaller  paper,  thus  craftily  calling  at- 
tention to  the  form  and  diverting  it  from  the  sub- 
stance of  the  article.  He  had  not  even  deigned  to 
comment  on  the  paragraph  which  Tommy  Ainsworth 
had  called  to  the  Congressman's  notice,  and  conse- 
quently, the  Hill,  which  regarded  with  lofty  scorn 
"The  Banner,"  and  all  that  was  printed  therein,  re- 
mained in  more  or  less  complete  ignorance  of  the 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  59 

growing  state  of  unrest  that  existed  throughout  the 
district,  and  more  particularly  "downtown." 

In  this  section  David  Ainsworth  was  not  well 
loved.  The  disgraceful  condition  in  which  for  years 
he  had  kept  his  real-estate  holdings  there,  had  not 
endeared  him  to  his  tenants,  who,  even  if  they  were 
too  ignorant  or  too  apathetically  indifferent  to  rebel 
openly,  were  far  from  regarding  their  landlord  with 
kindly  esteem.  They  supported  him  at  the  polls  be- 
cause there  had  never  been  any  organized  opposition 
to  him,  but  they  made  no  particular  effort  to  con- 
ceal their  personal  dislike  of  him,  even  from  his  son, 
who,  after  the  fashion  of  boys  the  world  over,  had 
begun,  coincidently  with  his  accession  to  long  trou- 
sers, to  visit  some  of  the  saloons  where  the  mill- 
hands  congregated. 

Tommy  labored  under  the  familiar  delusion  that 
to  indulge  in  dissipation  is  to  establish  one's  right 
to  be  styled  a  man ;  and  the  mill  workers,  recognizing 
the  boy's  eager  desire  to  make  friends  with  them, 
good-naturedly  accepted  him.  He  did  not  attempt 
to  patronize  them ;  he  was  frankly  interested  in  their 
doings  and  almost  pathetically  anxious  that  they 
should  regard  him  as  one  of  them.  They  tolerated 
him ;  they  allowed  him  to  mingle  with  them ;  but  only 
as  "Tom,"  a  harmless  youngster,  and  never  as  the  son 
of  David  Ainsworth. 

Ainsworth,  on  his  part,  looked  with  scorn  on  all 


60  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

the  workers  of  the -district  south  of  Squatter  Creek. 
In  his  own  mind  he  referred  to  them  contemptuously 
as  "scum."  And,  while  he  was  too  shrewd  to  ex- 
press his  opinion,  or  allow  it  to  be  actually  manifest, 
some  of  them  knew  it,  and  every  issue  of  "The  Ban- 
ner" was  telling  it  to  those  who,  while  perhaps  slow 
to  assimilate  new  ideas,  are  nevertheless  tenacious  of 
opinions  once  formed. 

There  was  more  than  one  person  in  Randolph  who 
believed,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  state,  that  the  hos- 
pital nearing  completion  on  the  summit  of  Maple 
Hill,  and  heralded  by  "The  Register"  as  <(1a  magnif- 
icent example  of  the  princely  philanthropy  and  al- 
truism of  our  first  citizen,  the  Honorable  David 
Ains worth,"  was  being  built,  not  because  Randolph 
needed  a  hospital,  not  because  the  poor  and  needy 
could  there  receive  aid,  for  the  lack  of  which  they 
might  otherwise  have  suffered  and  died,  but  solely 
because  David  Ainsworth  had  seen  an  opportunity  to 
glorify  himself  while  throwing  a  sop  to  those  dis- 
posed to  criticize  him.  The  Ainsworth  Hospital 
would  be  a  lasting  monument  to  the  nobility  of  the 
man  who,  in  the  greatness  of  his  unselfish  love  for  his 
fellow-creatures,  had  erected  it — on  a  site  formerly 
occupied  by  buildings  which  a  complaisant  Town 
Board  of  Trustees  had  reluctantly  advised  him  it 
would  have  to  condemn  as  unfit  for  human  oc- 
cupancy. 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  61 

Instead  of  being  grateful  to  its  "first  citizen"  for 
his  public-spirited  benevolence,  downtown  Randolph 
was  inclined  to  be  resentful.  "The  Banner"  was 
bitter.  Dick  Leighton  was  tolerantly  amused.  He 
did  not  know  exactly  how  Jean  felt  about  her  fa- 
ther's project;  but,  at  any  rate,  she  was  coming 
home,  and  that  was  enough  for  Dick.  She  was  com- 
ing back  to  Randolph,  where  he  could  be  with  her 
every  day,  instead  of  seeing  her  once  or  twice  a  year 
for  the  briefest  of  brief  periods. 


VI 

TOMMY  AINSWORTH  was  not  exactly  envi- 
ous of  his  sister;  but  he  was  more  than  a  little 
aggrieved  that  she  should  have  been  allowed  to  go 
her  own  way  while  he  was  obliged  to  submit  to  the 
conditions  his  father  imposed  on  him.  Just  before 
his  twentieth  birthday  he  had  returned  home  from 
college;  which  is  not  to  say  that  he  had  received  his 
degree.  His  sojourn  in  the  halls  of  learning  a- 
mounted  in  all  to  something  less  than  a  year,  and  his 
departure  therefrom  was  regretted  by  no  one  save  a 
few  boon  companions  .who  lamented  the  loss  of  a 
spirit  peculiarly  apt  in  the  conception  and  practice  of 
various  'forms  of  undergraduate  devilry. 

At  nineteen  the  average  boy  knows  virtually  all 
there  is  to  be  known,  especially  if  he  has  spent  nearly 
a  year  in  college.  There  are  few  matters  which  he 
does  not  feel  himself  competent  to  discuss,  few  dis- 
coveries which  he  has  not  considered  and  dismissed. 
Indeed,  there  is  left  in  the  world  so  little  knowledge 
of  which  he  is  not  complete  master,  that  he  feels  him- 
self wearied  of  life  and  living.  His  chief  wonder  is 
how  he  is  going  to  get  through  the  weary  years 

6a 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  63 

ahead,  when  he  has  already  exhausted  every  inter- 
esting possibility. 

Tommy  Ainsworth  was  perhaps  even  a  little  more 
cock-sure  of  himself  than  is  the  average  boy.  He 
knew  that  he  was  blase,  that  life  had  really  nothing 
new  to  offer  him  in  the  way  of  sensation  and  ex- 
perience. He  was  a  man  of  the  world;  he  felt  that 
he  was  rapidly  becoming  a  cynic. 

He  himself  was  not  in  the  least  concerned,  either 
because  he  had  "flunked  out,"  or  on  account  of  the 
not  too  flattering  opinion  the  faculty  held  of  his 
habits,  aims,  and  conduct — an  opinion  expressed  at 
some  length  in  a  letter  written  by  the  Dean  to  David 
Ainsworth.  Tommy's  own  explanation  of  his  fail- 
ure to  pass  his  examinations  in  more  than  one  sub- 
ject, was  that  it  made  his  head  ache  to  study.  The 
Dean  seemed  to  feel  that  possibly  young  Mr.  Ains- 
worth's  deplorable  malady  was  due  to  causes  other 
than  a  too  rigorous  application  to  his  books,  and  that 
the  knowledge  acquired  by  him — if  any — was  not  of 
the  sort  prescribed  in  the  curriculum  of  the  uni- 
versity. 

David  Ainsworth  had  been  rather  more  lenient 
with  the  boy  than  might  have  been  expected  in  the 
circumstances;  but  it  was  a  lenity  that  was  more 
apparent  than  real. 

"I  can't  say  I  think  the  past  year  has  been  a 
credit  to  you,  Tommy,"  he  said.  "But  the  mischief 


64  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

seems  to  have  been  done,  and  there  's  no  good  go- 
ing into  it.  The  question  now  is,  what  of  the 
future?  What  do  you  propose  to  do*?" 

Tommy's  reply  had  been  prompt  and  explicit. 

"Go  to  work !  Masters's  father  has  gotten  him  a 
corking  job  in  New  York,  and  there  's  an  opening  for 
me  with  the  same  concern.  Masters  said  it  would 
be  a  wonderful  chance  for  me,  if  you  'd  only  use  your 
influence.  That 's  what  I  'd  like  to  do,  Father — 
go  to  work  in  New  York." 

But  to  use  his  influence  to  get  his  son  a  position  in 
New  York,  or  even  to  give  his  consent  to  Tommy's 
going,  was  something  that  David  Ainsworth  had 
flatly  and  uncompromisingly  refused  to  do.  There 
were  other  universities.  Tommy  must  matriculate 
at  one  of  these  and  study  hard.  Of  course,  it  was 
unfortunate  that  he  had  lost  a  year;  still,  if  he  ap- 
plied himself  earnestly,  he  could  make  up  the  time. 

Tommy  did  n't  want  to  go  to  any  other  university, 
and  he  argued  that  if  his  father  insisted  it  would 
mean  merely  another  wasted  year.  There  was  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  his  head  would  ache  less  if  he 
studied  in  one  place  than  in  another,  was  there*? 
Well,  then,  why  not  let  him  go  to  New  York*? 

But  Ainsworth  was  adamant.  If  Tommy  wanted 
to  work,  then  let  him  work  in  Randolph. 

Tommy  accepted  his  defeat,  and  also  the  clerk- 
ship his  father  found  for  him  in  the  Merchants  and 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  65 

Mechanics'  Bank.  The  exactions  of  the  position 
were  not  unreasonable ;  but  at  the  end  of  two  months 
Squire  Moore,  the  president,  was  obliged,  unwill- 
ingly enough,  to  inform  Ainsworth  that  he  feared 
Tommy  was  not  fitted  for  the  work. 

"Took  him  a  long  time  to  find  it  out,"  was 
Tommy's  blithe  comment.  "I  knew  it  the  first  day 
I  was  there.  Now  will  you  let  me  go  to  New  York, 
Dad?' 

"No,"  said  his  father,  "I  will  not.  You  're  going 
to  stay  in  Randolph.  We  '11  find  you  something  to 
do  here." 

And  Tommy  had  stayed.  A  suitable  opening  not 
immediately  presenting  itself,  he  had  idled  about 
and,  having  early  exhausted  the  attractions  of  Main 
Avenue,  had  in  the  natural  course  of  events  gravi- 
tated downtown.  He  had  a  not  unpleasing  person- 
ality; there  was  something  infectious  about  his  wide, 
cheerful  smile,  something  winning  in  his  boyish 
charm  of  manner.  He  renewed  old  acquaintance- 
ships and  formed  new  ones.  He  listened  with  re- 
spectfully eager  interest  while  the  crowd  around 
Cory  Jackson's  bar  dealt  with  and  settled  cosmic 
affairs.  Once  or  twice,  when  local  matters  were  de- 
scended to,  he  reported  the  discussions  to  his  father, 
who  gave  him  an  attention  that  surprised  and  de- 
lighted him.  Thereafter,  as  if  by  tacit  agreement, 
the  subject  of  a  position  was  relegated  to  the  back- 


66  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

ground  and  finally  dropped  altogether.  Tommy  be- 
came the  finger  by  which  David  Ainsworth  felt  the 
pulse  of  the  Flats. 

To  the  boy  of  twenty  years,  it  was  thrilling  sport 
to  loiter  about  the  mill  district,  ostensibly  with  noth- 
ing on  his  mind  but  the  killing  of  time  in  good 
company,  while  he  was  really  acting  as  the  zealous 
guardian  of  his  father's  interests.  He  would  be  the 
unknown  and  unsuspected  power  behind  the  throne, 
the  wily  god  out  of  the  machine.  He  was  greatly 
flattered  that  his  father  should  impose  so  much  trust 
in  him,  charge  him  with  so  great  a  responsibility. 
And,  before  very  long,  he  came  to  have  some  little 
influence  among  his  associates.  He  knew  it,  and 
was  proud  of  it.  What  he  did  not  know,  however, 
and  what  David  Ainsworth  for  all  his  shrewdness 
was  too  myopically  self -centered  to  see,  was  that  the 
influence  he  exercised  was,  except  superficially,  over- 
shadowed by  that  which  was  exerted  over  him. 

Jean  suspected  that  something  was  amiss.  In  his 
letters  she  had  detected  a  different  note,  a  certain 
cheap  boastfulness  that  was  not  mere  boyish  swag- 
ger. It  troubled  her  greatly;  but  Jean  had  not  seen 
him  for  over  three  years,  and  did  not  understand 
how  great  was  the  alteration  in  him;  the  only  per- 
son who  really  appreciated  it  was  Mary  Nestor. 

Miss  Nestor  was  Mrs.  Ainsworth's  only  sister, 
a  quiet  little  woman,  with  soft  brown  hair  plenti- 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  67 

fully  threaded  with  gray,  and  brown  eyes,  mild 
and  kindly.  A  capable,  efficient  manager,  she  had 
administered  the  domestic  affairs  of  the  household 
ever  since  the  death  of  Alice  Ainsworth,  when  Jean 
was  fifteen  and  Tommy  ten  years  of  age.  She  had 
tried  conscientiously  to  take  the  mother's  place,  and 
in  so  far  as  it  is  possible  for  any  one  to  do  this  she 
had  succeeded. 

Jean's  affection  for  her  was  deep  and  sincere. 
Tommy  was  fond  of  her;  indeed,  he  loved  her  in 
an  off-hand  sort  of  way;  but  he  was  a  little  con- 
temptuous of  what  he  termed  her  "old  fuss-cat 
notions,"  nor  was  he  always  as  courteous  as  he  might 
have  been.  To  her  gentle  remonstrances  in  regard 
to  the  increasing  carelessness  of  his  habits,  his 
coarsening  speech  and  manners,  he  paid  no  attention 
whatever;  he  was  not  so  much  indifferent  as  he  was 
impatient  of  her  "interference."  His  return  on 
three  consecutive  evenings  considerably  the  worse 
for  liquor,  brought  to  a  head  her  resolve  to  point 
out  to  her  brother-in-law  certain  facts  to  which  he 
seemed  strangely  blind. 

She  chose  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  when 
Tommy  had  left  the.house  for  his  usual  stroll  down 
street.  Then  she  descended  to  the  library,  where 
Ainsworth  sat  glancing  through  the  latest  copy  of 
"The  Register."  The  library  was  the  pleasantest 
room  in  the  house.  There  was  nothing  pretentious 


68  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

either  in  its  proportions  or  in  its  furnishings;  but 
there  was  about  it  an  air  of  comfortable  simplicity, 
the  air  of  a  room  that  is  lived  in  and  enjoyed.  The 
walls  were  lined  with  open  book-shelves,  built 
breast-high ;  at  one  end  yawned  a  deep-throated  fire- 
place, its  bricks  dulled  to  a  mellow  tone.  A  row  of 
French  windows  at  the  back  afforded  a  glimpse  of  a 
charming  garden,  in  which  all  summer  long  old- 
fashioned  flowers  made  a  riot  of  colorful  bloom. 
David  Ains worth  himself  preferred  the  more  lux- 
uriously appointed  study  on  the  second  floor,  but 
Jean  had  always  loved  the  library.  And  everything 
had  been  arranged  just  as  she  had  been  accustomed 
to  see  it,  even  to  the  great  bowl  of  long-stemmed  red 
roses  on  the  mantel-shelf. 

"By  this  time  to-morrow  afternoon  Jean  will  be 
with  us,  David,"  Miss  Nestor  began,  drawing  up 
a  low  chair  beside  the  table,  and  balancing  her  work- 
basket  on  her  knees  while  she  got  out  her  thimble 
and  darning-materials.  "It  will  be  so  nice  to  have 
her  home  again.  And  I  'm  very  glad  Tommy  is 
looking  forward  to  it.  He  spent  hours  this  morn- 
ing polishing  up  his  roadster,  so  that  it  will  look 
nice  when  he  drives  to  the  station  to  meet  her  to- 
morrow. I  was  relieved  to  notice  how  eager  he  is 
to  see  her.  She  can  do  anything  with  him,  you 
know;  and  I  feel  that  he  really  ought  to  be  taken 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  69 

in  hand.  You  know,  David,  I  'm  worried  about 
that  boy." 

"Eh?"  Ainsworth  glanced  up.  "Worried  about 
Tommy?  Why,  what 's  the  matter  with  him? 
You  mean  he  's  not  well?" 

"No;  his  health  is  all  right  now,  as  far  as  I  know. 
But  if  he  keeps  on  drinking,  and  coming  home  at 
all  hours  of  the  night,  it  won't  be  very  long.  It 
seems  to  me  that  something  ought  to  be  done  about 
it.  No  less  than  three  times  this  week  he  's  come 
home  after  midnight,  and  once,  at  least,  he  was  n't 
himself.  I  'm  very  much  worried  about  him.  Noth- 
ing I  can  say  does  any  good.  He  takes  the  atti- 
tude that  it 's  none  of  my  business,  and  the  more 
I  try  to  reason  with  him  the  worse  he  gets.  I  wish 
you  'd  speak  to  him,  David." 

Ainsworth  lowered  his  paper  and  frowned  at  her 
over  the  top  of  the  drooping  pages. 

"I  don't  quite  understand  your  attitude  in  regard 
to  Tommy,  Mary,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  suppressed 
annoyance.  "Suppose  he  does  stay  out  late  once 
in  a  while,  or  take  a  social  drink  or  two.  It  does  n't 
necessarily  mean  that  he  's  on  the  brink  of  the  pit, 
as  you  seem  to  think." 

"I  don't  think  so,  David;  that  is  n't  what  I  meant, 
at  all.  And  I  don't  want  you  to  get  the  impression 
that  I  have  narrow,  prudish  ideas  about  him.  I 


70  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

love  to  see  him  happy  and  enjoying  himself;  and  if 
he  did  n't  take  more  than  one  or  two  drinks  oc- 
casionally, I  don't  suppose  they  'd  hurt  him.  But, 
David,  Tommy  has  changed."  Her  sweet  face  was 
very  serious.  "He's  coarsened;  his  manners  are 
different.  When  he  comes  in,  he 's  rough  and 
boisterous.  He  behaves  as  if  he  were  in  a  barn 
instead  of  a  house." 

Ainsworth  smiled,  the  tolerant  smile  of  a  man 
who,  seeing  the  absurdity  of  the  argument,  and 
knowing  that  he  has  all  the  best  of  it,  makes  due 
and  generous  allowance  for  his  opponent's  dullness. 

"High  spirits,"  he  said.  "You  're  making  a 
mountain  out  of  a  mole-hill,  Mary.  Those  are  just 
trivial  things." 

"In  themselves,  yes,"  she  agreed.  "But  they  're 
indications  of  a  general  lowering  of  his  standards. 
He  seems  to  have  lost  something — I  can't  exactly 
define  it,  but  something  of  that  quality  that  made 
him  such  an  attractive,  lovable  boy." 

"That 's  just  it,  Mary;  he  's  not  a  boy."  With 
the  tip  of  his  forefinger,  Ainsworth  tapped  the  news- 
paper. His  toleration  expanded  into  rare  affability. 
"You  've  forgotten  to  let  him  grow  up !  Tommy  's 
a  man,  and  he  's  proving  it  more  conclusively  every 
day.  He  's  of  inestimable  help  to  me.  Why,  I  'd 
hardly  know  what  to  do  without  him." 

Miss  Nestor  deftly  turned  a  black  silk  sock  wrong 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  71 

side  out  and  drew  it  over  her  hand,  spreading  out 
her  fingers  in  first  the  heel  and  then  the  toe.  Find- 
ing no  work  there  for  her  needle,  she  picked  up  the 
other  one  of  the  pair. 

"But  do  you  think  it 's  wise,  David,  to  let  him 
help  you  the  way  he  does'?"  she  asked. 

"Certainly!     Why  not?" 

"There 's  his  future  to  be  thought  of.  He 's 
twenty-one  now,  and  he  has  n't  any  definite  aim  at 
all.  When  you  sent  him  to  college,  you  were  going 
to  have  him  study  for  the  bar.  Then  he  failed  in 
his  examinations  that  first  year,  and  you  told  him 
he  'd  either  have  to  go  to  some  other  university,  or 
go  to  work  here  in  town.  He  has  n't  done  either 
one.  He—" 

"He  's  gone  to  work  for  me;  and  he  's  doing  very 
well  indeed,  Mary." 

"But  is  he  getting  anywhere*?"  she  persisted. 
"Is  he  accumulating  any  knowledge  or  experience 
that  is  going  to  be  worth  anything  to  him  later  on 
when  he  does  go  into  business*?  He  seems  to  idle 
around  all  day,  just  wasting  time.  He  may  be 
able  to  help  you  a  little,  but  he  '11  never  make  a 
secretary  or  a  really  able  assistant."  She  knew 
whereof  she  spoke.  Tommy  regarded  a  pen  with 
disfavor  and  a  typewriter  with  contempt.  He  was 
not  of  the  timber  from  which  efficient  secretaries 
are  made.  "You  could  easily  hire  some  one  to 


72  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

assist  you,  and  have  Tommy  do  something  that 
would  at  least  start  him  in  the  right  direction. 
There  really  does  r?t  seem  to  be  much  for  him  here 
in  Randolph.  Perhaps  if  you  let  him  go  to  New 
York — he  's  always  wanted  to,  you  know — he  'd 
get  interested  and  be  more  ambitious." 

"He  's  not  going  to  New  York,"  Ainsworth  said 
shortly. 

"You  can't  mean  him  to  go  on  indefinitely  this 
way?  Is  n't  he  to  take  up  a  profession — make 
some  sort  of  a  career  for  himself1?" 

Never  before  had  she  ventured  to  prolong  a  dis- 
cussion which  her  brother-in-law  so  obviously  wished 
to  end.  She  was  astonished  at  her  own  temerity; 
but  the  point  seemed  of  vital  importance  to  her,  and 
she  clung  to  it  determinedly,  in  the  face  of  Ains- 
worth's  ominous  frown. 

The  Congressman  was  irritated  at  her  persistence, 
the  more  because  of  the  justice  of  her  complaint. 
Tommy  was  drinking  too  much,  as  he  himself  had 
recently  warned  the  boy.  But  his  affairs  in  the  dis- 
trict were  assuming  an  increasingly  critical  aspect; 
and  he  regarded  it  as  of  vital  importance  that 
Tommy  should  for  the  present  be  unrestricted. 
When  the  crisis  was  over,  he  would  take  the  matter 
in  hand.  Meanwhile,  he  considered  Miss  Nestor's 
apprehension  unwarranted,  and  as  something  of  a 
reflection  on  himself. 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  73 

"I  have  n't  lost  sight  of  anything,  Mary,"  he 
said.  "Tommy's  future  will  be  properly  taken  care 
of,  all  in  due  time.  But  just  now  I  need  him. 
He  's  the  most  dependable  worker  I  have.  I  can 
merely  suggest  a  thing  to  him  and  know  that  it  will 
be  done,  and  done  right." 

"But,  David,  the  doing  of  it  takes  him  downtown, 
to  places  where  he  is  brought  into  contact  with  the 
very  worst  element."  Miss  Nestor  let  her  darning 
fall  into  her  lap;  she  leaned  forward,  speaking  very 
earnestly.  "He  does  n't  spend  a  single  evening 
with  the  young  people  of  his  own  class.  He 
doesn't  go  to  their  entertainments,  or  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  them.  Night  after  night  he  goes 
downtown,  to  those  low  saloons.  And  I  tell  you, 
David,  it 's  having  anything  but  a  good  effect  on 
him.  It 's  coarsening  his  mental  and  moral  fiber. 
He  needs  different  associates,  different  influences. 
That 's  one  reason  why  I  'm  glad  Jean  is  coming. 
He  '11  want  to  be  with  her,  and  he  '11  stay  at  home 
more." 

Ainsworth's  face  hardened.  His  tone  took  on  a 
chill  incisiveness,  as  it  always  did  when  any  one 
radically  disagreed  with  him. 

"No  one  will  be  more  pleased  to  see  Jean  than 
I,  Mary,"  he  said.  "But  as  far  as  her  influence  on 
Tommy  goes,  he  has  always  respected  my  wishes, 
which  is  more  than  I  can  say  for  her.  He  is,  as  I 


74  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

have  said,  doing  a  very  valuable  work  for  me,  and 
I  certainly  do  not  purpose  to  interfere  with  him  just 
at  present.  By  the  way" — he  turned  his  opaque 
eyes  penetratingly  on  his  sister-in-law — "what  is 
this  that  I  hear  about  Jean  and  young  Leighton  *?" 
"But,  David,  about  Tommy's  drinking.  He — " 
"I  am  asking  you  about  Jean,  Mary." 
Miss  Nestor  sighed  and  took  up  her  work  again. 
It  was  useless  to  try  to  open  David's  mind,  she 
thought,  once  he  had  closed  it.  And  closed  it  he 
had,  with  his  characteristic  imperiousness,  as  far 
as  the  subject  of  Tommy  and  Tommy's  associates 
was  concerned.  She  did  not  want  to  discuss  Jean 
or  Dick  Leighton;  and  it  was  not  until  Ainsworth 
had  rather  sharply  repeated  his  question  that  she 
said: 

"Why,  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  Ve  heard, 
David.  Jean's  friendship  for  Mr.  Leighton  is  no 
secret,  and  never  has  been  one." 

"But  from  reports,  lately,  I  inferred  that  there 
might  be  something  more  than  a  mere  casual  ac- 
quaintance, or  a  sort  of  friendship  that  was  the  result 
of  their  playing  together  as  children.  I  never  really 
approved  of  it,  but  Alice  saw  no  harm.  Tommy, 
too,  has  dropped  several  very  broad  hints.  Just 
what  do  you  know?" 

Miss  Nestor,  her  eyes  intent  on  the  gaping  rent 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  75 

in  the  heel  of  one  of  Tommy's  golf  stockings,  lifted 
one  shoulder  in  the  suggestion  of  a  shrug. 

"I  don't  know  anything,  except  that  it  is  true  that 
Dick  has  been  to  see  her  in  New  York  a  number  of 
times,  and  that 's  a  long  journey  to  make,  simply 
to  call  on  a  friend." 

Ainsworth  frowned. 

"You  're  right,"  he  said  shortly.  "I  wish  I  had 
considered  this  before.  I  don't  like  it." 

"I  don't  see  why,"  said  Miss  Nestor.  "And, 
for  that  matter,  Jean  might  go  a  good  deal  further 
than  Dick  Leighton  and  fare  much  worse !  Has  he 
done  anything  to  turn  you  against  him,  David  ?" 

With  an  "Oh,  never  mind,  Mary;  never  mind," 
the  Congressman  brushed  aside  the  question, 
exactly  as  all  his  life  he  had  brushed  aside  any 
question  as  to  the  fairness  of  his  -autocratic  pro- 
nouncements. His  wife  had  quickly  learned  that 
it  was  useless  to  argue  with  him;  it  was  almost 
unprecedented  for  his  sister-in-law  to  take  a  position 
definitely  opposed  to  him:  David  Ainsworth  was 
a  domestic  despot.  With  his  daughter,  however, 
things  had  been  different. 

The  Congressman  had  stood  firmly  upon  the 
platform  that  a  daughter's  place  was  in  her  father's 
house  until  she  left  it  to  go  to  that  of  her  husband ; 
that  there  was  neither  necessity  nor  occasion  for 


76  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

Jean's  taking  up  nursing,  settlement  work,  or  any- 
thing else;  that  "career"  was  a  word  used  by  flighty, 
erratic  women  as  a  veil  to  cover  up  the  misdirection 
of  their  energies;  that  there  were  plenty  of  people, 
differently  circumstanced,  to  work  in  hospitals  and 
charitable  institutions;  and,  as  a  final  clincher  to 
his  whole  argument,  that  Jean  was  his  daughter  and 
owed  him  absolute  and  unquestioning  obedience. 
He  had  flatly  refused  his  consent  to  her  plans. 

But  in  Jean,  Ainsworth's  own  unswerving  will 
had  blended  with  her  mother's  gentle  firmness  and 
fine  strength  of  character.  Whatever  lure  of  ro- 
mance there  may  have  been  in  the  idea  of  lending 
her  strength  to  the  weak,  her  courage  to  the  despon- 
dent, her  young  optimism  to  the  hopeless — and  un- 
questionably there  was  such  a  lure — back  of  it  all 
there  had  been  the  tug  of  a  sincere  and  genuine 
desire  to  do  some  real  good  in  the  world — her  share, 
if  possible,  of  the  great  mass  of  work  that  cried  out 
to  be  done. 

Even  in  Randolph  people  were  poor  and  helpless. 
They  suffered  from  poverty,  from  privation  and 
illness.  She  had  never  known  want  in  any  form. 
Her  father  was  wealthy,  and  always  she  had  been 
surrounded  by  every  comfort.  In  his  home,  except 
from  the  single  standpoint  of  companionship,  she 
was  superfluous.  Her  aunt  administered  the  vari- 
ous details  of  the  household  and  managed  the 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  77 

servants.  There  was,  literally,  nothing  for  the  girl 
to  do,  and  she  had  decided  that  if  all  work  and  no 
play  made  Jack  a  dull  boy,  then  all  play  and  no 
work  would  make  Jean  a  useless  member  of  society. 

She  had  thought  a  good  deal  about  it  before  she 
broached  the  subject  to  her  father,  and  his  un- 
sympathetic attitude,  his  obvious  lack  of  any  desire 
to  understand  her  point  of  view,  had  but  braced  her 
determination.  Where  Tommy  was  weak,  she  was 
strong;  where  he  was  readily  influenced  by  specious 
argument,  she  was  not  to  be  moved.  She  had 
announced  that  she  meant  to  go,  either  with  or 
without  her  father's  sanction. 

Had  the  question  of  money  been  involved  he 
would  not  have  hesitated  to  use  it  as  a  club  to  beat 
her  into  submission;  but  she  had  a  few  thousand 
dollars  of  her  own,  and  so  was  financially  indepen- 
dent of  him,  temporarily,  at  least.  Therefore  she 
had  got  her  own  way,  but  it  was,  Ainsworth  was 
convinced,  a  way  that  would  speedily  cease  to  ap- 
peal to  her.  In  every  letter  that  arrived  he  had 
hoped  and  fully  expected  to  trace  some  inkling  of 
failing  purpose,  to  find  some  hint  that  she  was 
ready  to  give  over  her  quixotic  notions  and  return 
to  her  home. 

Understanding  Jean  far  better  than  Ainsworth 
ever  had  or  ever  would,  Miss  Nestor  had  expected 
nothing  of  the  sort.  She  was  sure  that  the  girl, 


78  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

having  once  put  her  hand  to  the  plow,  would  go  on 
to  the  end  of  the  furrow.  Indeed,  when  the  Ains- 
worth  Hospital  neared  completion,  and  the  Con- 
gressman wrote  to  Jean  to  ask  her  to  take  the 
superintendency,  Miss  Nestor  had  been  on  tenter- 
hooks lest  she  decide  in  favor  of  going  on  with  her 
work  in  New  York.  And  now  the  little  lady  was 
almost  pathetically  anxious  that  nothing  should 
occur  to  strain  again  the  relations  between  father 
and  daughter;  and  her  solicitude  in  this,  alone  gave 
her  the  courage  to  press  the  question  which  Ains- 
worth  had  dismissed. 

"But,  David,"  she  said,  "you  never  used  to  ob- 
ject to  Mr.  Leigh  ton.  What  is  the  matter4?" 

"I  simply  don't  consider  him  a  proper  associate 
for  Jean." 

"But—" 

He  interrupted  her  brusquely : 

"How  far  has  this  thing  gone?" 

"Well,  Jean  never  confided  in  me,"  she  began 
cautiously.  "I  don't  think  there  is  any  actual 
engagement — " 

"Engagement !"  Ainsworth  ejaculated.  "I  should 
hope  not." 

"But  I  do  think,"  she  finished,  half  defiantly, 
"that  there  's  a  pretty  thorough  understanding." 

The  sheets  of  "The  Register"  crackled  under  the 
sudden  pressure  of  Ainsworth's  hand;  in  his  voice 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  79 

there  ran  an  undercurrent  of  cold  anger  as  he  said : 
"Well,  if  there  is,  it  must  come  to  an  end,  at 
once!  I  shall  have  to  talk  to  Jean  about  this! 
She  forgets  what  is  due  to  me.  Jean  is  headstrong 
and  inclined  to  be  rebellious.  I  've  given  her  too 
much  latitude,  and  I  'm  afraid  it  has  n't  done  her 
any  good.  But  in  this  matter  I  shall  expect 
obedience." 

He  lifted  the  paper  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
again.  For  him,  the  subject  was  closed,  until  it 
suited  him  to  re-open  it.  He  meant  to  speak  to 
Jean  at  the  earliest  opportunity,  and  express  his 
wishes,  or,  if  necessary,  issue  his  commands.  He 
did  not  consider  that  it  would  be  necessary,  how- 
ever. To  him  Jean  was  still  a  child,  subject  to 
paternal  authority.  The  significance  of  her  demon- 
stration of  her  right  to  be  independent  in  thought 
and  action  had  utterly  failed  to  impress  him. 


VII 

ANY  unprejudiced  observer  would  have  con- 
ceded, readily  enough,  that  the  town  of  Ran- 
dolph needed  a  new  post-office.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  dingy  old  brick  building  at  the  Four 
Corners  made  a  very  acceptable  lounging-place  and 
forum.  Facing  on  Main  Avenue,  the  low-browed 
double  doorway  commanded  an  unobstructed  view 
of  Bridge  Street,  along  which  all  traffic  to  and  from 
the  railroad  station  must  pass.  The  square  space 
between  the  windows  and  the  lock-box  section  was 
fairly  commodious;  individuals  of  either  sex,  burst- 
ing to  express  an  opinion  on  such  pregnant  questions 
as  the  price  of  feed,  Len  Dillon's  unexpected  sale 
of  The  Full  Value  Department  Store,  or  the  airs 
Mrs.  Chauncey  gave  herself  on  the  strength  of  her 
husband's  new  automobile,  found  there  an  attentive 
audience.  Randolph  possessed  a  carrier  system  of 
sorts,  but  most  people  preferred  to  call  for  their 
mail :  the  carrier  was  usually  in  a  hurry  and  was  apt 
to  be  vague  as  to  details,  anyway;  it  seemed  much 
more  satisfactory  to  glean  information  at  first  hand. 
It  was  Tommy  Ains worth's  custom  to  stroll  down 

street  about  four  o'clock  every  pleasant  afternoon, 

80 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  81 

ensconce  himself  comfortably  on  a  corner  of  the 
wide  sill  of  the  window  next  the  door,  and  there 
await  the  arrival  of  the  mail  from  the  east  and 
south.  If  a  brief  and  somewhat  hectic  six  months 
at  college  had  done  nothing  else  for  Tommy,  it  had 
taught  him  that  the  human  male  is  the  lord  of  crea- 
tion, born  to  be  admired;  and  that,  having  been 
assigned  such  a  role  in  life,  he  must  fill  it  creditably. 

Acting  on  this  hypothesis,  Tommy  was  wont  to 
deck  himself  out  in  the  manner  approved  by  the 
least  conservative  of  university  freshmen;  and 
assuredly  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed 
like  one  of  these.  The  lilies  of  the  field  would 
have  bowed  their  heads  in  humiliation  at  being  so 
far  outshone,  could  they  have  gazed  upon  young 
Mr.  Ainsworth  when  he  had  done  full  justice  to 
what  he  considered  to  be  a  fitting  costume  for  an 
afternoon's  stroll. 

He  sauntered  magnificently  into  the  post-office 
about  half-past  three,  and  bestowed  on  Clark  Jen- 
kins a  bow  that,  for  graciousness,  was  second  only 
to  the  masterpiece  of  condescension  with  which  he 
favored  Dick  Leighton.  Dick,  who  had  stopped  in 
to  get  a  registered  letter,  nodded  good-naturedly; 
but  the  postmaster  entirely  ignored  the  salute,  which 
he  pretended  not  to  have  seen. 

"That  boy  of  Ainsworth's  sure  gets  my  goat,"  hs 


82  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

confided  to  Dick  as  he  pushed  the  return  card  under 
the  grating.  "He  comes  in  here,  all  dressed  up  like 
a  picture  postcard,  and  acts  as  if  he  was  Goddal- 
mighty.  If  I  'm  not  doing  anything  much,  he  walks 
by  with  his  nose  in  the  air ;  but  if  I  'm  all  alone  here, 
and  there  's  a  whole  crowd  waiting,  he  '11  stand  at 
the  window  and  ask  me  forty-seven  questions,  by 
actual  count.  He  paraded  in  yesterday  afternoon, 
just  after  Norah  went  home,  and  I  give  you  my 
word  he  'd  have  been  talking  yet  if  he  could  have 
got  anybody  to  listen  to  him.  He  makes  me  tired." 

Dick  laughed. 

"Oh,  Tommy  's  just  a  boy,"  he  said,  "and  he 
thinks  he  's  lot  more  important  than  any  one  could 
possibly  be.  All  of  us  felt  that  way  at  his  age,  I 
guess.  Where's  Norah  to-day"?  I  haven't  seen 
her." 

"She  had  a  cold  yesterday,  and  I  told  her  not  to 
come  in  to-day  unless  she  felt  O.  K.  I  can  manage 
all  right  without  her;  she's  not  absolutely  indis- 
pensable, you  know." 

"Poor  Norah!"  said  Dick.  Everybody  was  sorry 
for  Norah  Foster.  She  had  never  had  any  real 
chance.  Her  mother  had  died  when  she  was  a  baby, 
and  her  father,  who  owned  a  down-at-the-heels  farm 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  never  had  and  never 
'  could  amount  to  anything.  Norah  was  pretty,  in  a 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  83 

pink-and-white,  babyish  sort  of  way,  but  she  was 
quite  as  futile  as  her  looks.  She  "helped  out"  at  the 
post-office  because  Clark  Jenkins  pitied  her ;  but  if  it 
were  possible  to  make  a  mistake  she  made  it,  and 
a  wary  eye  was  always  kept  on  her  when  she  was 
at  the  stamp  window. 

"I  hear,"  Jenkins  said,  dismissing  Norah  from 
the  conversation,  "that  the  hospital 's  about  done, 
and  that  Jean  Ainsworth  is  coming  home  to-morrow 
to  take  charge.  Wonder  how  the  town  will  look 
to  her  after  four  years  of  New  York." 

Dick  had  been  wondering,  too.  Very  small  and 
ugly  and  cramped,  he  supposed.  But  Jean  was  n't 
the  sort  of  girl  to  change  much.  Jean  was — well, 
she  was  Jean.  And  in  just  twenty- four  hours  he 
would  be  helping  her  down  the  steps  of  the  Pullman. 
His  heart  quickened  its  beat  a  little  at  the  thought. 
He  nodded  again  to  Tommy  as  he  turned  toward  the 
door. 

"Hwaya  Leigh  ton,"  returned  Tommy,  languidly, 
tapping  his  leg  with  the  light  stick  he  always 
carried. 

"Fine!"  said  Dick.     "Fine!     Any  news?" 

Tommy  stared. 

"News'?  News  in  this  mausoleum?  Hardly!" 
He  withdrew  his  gaze  from  Dick  and  directed  it 
out  of  the  window. 


84  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"It  will  be  nice  to  have  Jean  home  again,"  Dick 
observed.  "I  hope  she  has  a  pleasant  day  for  her 
journey,  to-morrow." 

Tommy's  eyes,  no  longer  supercilious,  but  frankly 
hostile,  came  back  to  his. 

"You  seem  to  be  remarkably  familiar  with  the 
plans  of — my  sister."  The  stressed  pause  between 
the  preposition  and  the  pronoun  was  intended  to 
convey  a  crushing  rebuke.  The  deliberate  turning 
of  the  ultra-tailored  shoulders,  even  more  eloquent, 
should  have  put  Dick  in  his  place  at  once;  but 
Dick  was  unaware  that  he  had  stepped  out  of  it. 
He  understood  both  Tommy's  dislike  of  him  and 
its  causes,  and  he  harbored  not  the  slightest 
animosity  toward  the  boy.  He  fumbled  in  his 
pocket  for  his  tobacco  pouch  and  brown  papers,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway  while  he  rolled 
a  cigarette. 

Main  Avenue  lay  like  a  rusty  red  ribbon  under 
the  hot,  dry  shimmer  of  the  afternoon  sun.  There 
had  been  no  rain  for  several  days,  and  a  film  of 
dust  covered  its  brick  pavements  and  rose  in  slow 
sulky  clouds  about  the  feet  of  passers-by,  of  whom 
there  were  not  many.  The  day's  marketing  had  been 
finished  hours  before,  and  the  young  people  had 
not  yet  begun  the  regular  afternoon  pilgrimage  to 
the  Greek's,  where  daily  a  surprising  quantity  of 
appetite-spoiling  indigestibles  was  consumed. 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  85 

Ike  Milliken  slouched  in  the  doorway  of  the 
express  office ;  on  the  steps  of  the  telephone  exchange 
a  short-sleeved,  hatless  young  lady  sat  fanning  her- 
self with  a  folded  newspaper.  The  windows  of 
"The  Register"  office  next  door  glittered  like  a 
row  of  huge  yellow  sardine  tins.  In  front  of  the 
drug  store  a  lean,  shaggy  horse  drooped  between  the 
shafts  of  a  ramshackle  surrey,  flicking  a  listless  wisp 
of  tail  now  and  again  at  the  flies  that  buzzed  over 
its  flanks.  From  the  open  basement  door  of  Milt 
Cummings's  "High  Class  Billiard  and  Pool  Parlor," 
the  clicking  impact  of  the  balls  sounded  plainly 
on  the  still,  drowsy  air. 

Dick  scratched  a  match  on  the  rough  door-casing, 
shielded  the  tiny  flame  with  the  palm  of  his  hand, 
and  applied  it  to  the  end  of  his  cigarette.  But  he 
did  not  draw  in  that  first  satisfying  inhalation  of 
smoke.  Instead,  he  straightened  up  slowly,  and 
stepped  out  upon  the  pavement,  the  burnt  match 
still  clipped  between  his  fingers,  his  eyes  fixed  with 
a  curious  intentness  on  a  cloud  of  dust  far  up  the 
avenue. 

"Now  what  the  devil — ?"  he  muttered,  half 
aloud ;  and  Tommy,  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window, 
abandoned  his  attitude  of  haughty  reserve  and 
craned  his  neck  to  see. 

In  wavering  spurts  of  saffron  the  cloud  rolled 
nearer;  and  from  its  depths  came  a  low  throbbing 


86  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

hum,  like  the  angry  droning  of  a  swarm  of  bees. 
In  the  swirling  dust  veils,  dark  figures  bobbed  up 
and  down.  The  humming  sound  grew  louder  and 
louder.  A  boy'  on  a  bicycle  pedaled  rapidly  -along, 
shouting,  waving  frantically.  Ike  Milliken  ran 
down  to  the  curb  and  stood  staring. 

"What  is  it4?"  demanded  Tommy,  at  Dick's 
elbow.  "What's  all  the  crowd?" 

Past  the  Methodist  Church,  past  Dr.  Evans's 
white-fenced  garden,  past  Elm  Street  corner,  swept 
the  gathering  whirlwind  of  dust  and  humanity. 
People  were  running  in  the  street,  on  the  sidewalks, 
along  the  strip  of  grass  that  bordered  the  fences. 
There  were  yells,  shouts,  shrill  cries,  all  blended  in 
a  confused  crescendo.  And  over  and  above  the 
tumult,  beating  insistently  from  mouth  to  mouth, 
throbbed  the  sinister  word  "murder!" 

A  shrieking  woman  rushed  at  Dick  Leighton  and 
seized  his  arm.  He  shook  himself  free  and  shoul- 
dered his  way  through  the  crowd  that  centered 
about  the  figure  of  a  man,  who  at  the  sound  of 
Dick's  voice  flung  up  both  arms  and  lurched  un- 
steadily forward.  His  thin  gray  hair  was  matted 
into  a  mass  of  clotted  red  at  the  base  of  his  skull, 
and  the  collar  of  his  flannel  shirt  was  stiff  with  the 
blood  that  had  dripped  and  dried  on  it.  There 
was  blood  on  his  face,  smeared  across  the  tear- 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  87 

blotched  cheeks  and  raddled  into  the  straggling 
beard.  He  clung,  swaying,  to  Dick's  arm.  His 
words,  disjointed,  incoherent,  came  between  sobbing 
breaths.  The  excited  crowd  pressed  about  him, 
questioning,  exclaiming,  advising.  A  dozen  men 
tried  to  speak  to  Dick  at  once.  He  silenced  them 
with  a  curt:  "Keep  still!  Let  me  talk  to  him." 

The  little  man  was  nearly  exhausted.  His  voice 
kept  breaking  on  a  high,  hysterical  note ;  in  his  eyes 
stalked  the  stark  terror  of  what  he  had  witnessed 
before  the  blow  on  his  head  had  brought  a  brief 
oblivion.  Little  threads  of  saliva  trickled  from 
the  corners  of  his  loose-lipped  mouth;  his  whole 
face  worked  spasmodically  as  he  babbled  forth  the 
story  he  had  run  four  miles  to  tell — a  story  that 
sent  a  sick  shudder  over  Dick  Leighton  as,  bit  by 
bit,  he  pieced  it  out. 

"Take  him  over  to  the  drug  store,"  he  directed 
Clark  Jenkins,  briefly;  and,  brushing  the  crowd 
aside,  he  started  across  the  street.  He  did  not  seem 
to  be  hurrying,  but  Tommy  Ainswortli,  close  at  his 
heels,  found  himself  running  to  keep  up. 

Outside  the  telephone  exchange  the  folded  news- 
paper lay  where  the  operator  had  dropped  it.  Dick 
stepped  inside  the  building. 

"Call  Jackson's,"  he  ordered.  He  picked  up  the 
receiver  of  an  instrument  that  stood  on  a  small  desk 


88  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

beside  the  door.  "Then  get  the  Corbin  farm,  Mas- 
terson's  place,  the  Garvey  mill,  Henderson's,  Cal 
White's  house,  and  the  Berry  place." 

"Oh,  isn't  it  awful,  Dick!"  The  girl's  hands 
were  trembling;  big  tears  were  rolling  down  her 
cheeks.  "I  can't  hardly  believe  it 's  Norah  that 's 
— There's  Jackson's;  go  ahead." 

"Cory? — This  is  Leighton  talking.  Is  Bud 
McFee  there? — Cass  Blake  has  murdered  Norah 
Foster.  Tell  McFee  to  hop  into  an  automobile  and 
watch  the  upper  bridge.  Send  Murray  over  to  me 
at  my  office  at  once;  we'll  need  a  dozen  horses. 
He  '11  understand.  Have  Capron  come  with  him. 
That 's  all." 

"Here 's  Corbin,"  announced  the  operator,  and 
the  plugs  on  the  switchboard  clicked  into  the  new 
connection. 

"Leighton  talking.  Have  you  seen  anything  of 
Cass  Blake4?" 

"Cass  Blake?  Not  fer  quite  a  spell,"  came  the 
farmer's  slow  drawl.  "You  want  him?" 

"We  want  him  for  the  murder  of  Norah  Foster. 
Have  Jimmy  and  Tec  take  their  guns  and  see  to  it 
that  he  does  n't  get  by  your  place.  If  you  find  any 
trace  of  him,  report  at  once.  Notify  Phillips  to 
keep  a  sharp  lookout.  Good-by." 

"Jack  Masterson  on  the  wire,  Dick." 

One  after  another,  the  calls  went  out.     Railroad 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  89 

officials  were  notified;  every  trainman  was  warned 
to  be  on  the  alert,  that  no  skulking  figure  might 
glide  from  a  sheltering  patch  of  woods,  or  slip 
aboard  a  slow-moving  freight  as  it  crawled  slug- 
gishly through  the  valley.  Stalwart,  grim-visaged 
men  shouldered  their  guns  and  hurried  off  to  patrol 
every  road  and  bridge  and  trail  within  a  twenty- 
mile  radius  of  the  place  Norah  Foster  had  called 
home. 

Strand  by  strand,  that  crisp,  clear  voice  at  the 
telephone  wove  the  meshes  of  an  invisible  net, 
meshes  that  reached  from  house  to  house,  from 
farm  to  farm — meshes  that  spread  and  tightened 
and  grew  stronger  as  afternoon  faded  into  a  star- 
lit night. 


VIII 

CASS  BLAKE  had  long  been  known  as  a  worth- 
less character,  with  instincts  undoubtedly 
vicious.  When  he  was  not  being  housed  and  fed 
at  the  expense  of  the  taxpayers,  he  had  worked  inter- 
mittently as  a  farm-hand,  or  done  odd  jobs  for 
whomsoever  would  employ  him.  His  infatuation 
for  Norah  Foster  had  never  been  taken  seriously 
by  any  one,  least  of  all  by  the  girl  herself.  When 
he  had  stood  for  an  hour  or  so  outside  the  post- 
office,  waiting  for  her  to  appear,  she  had  passed  him 
without  even  a  nod;  his  clumsy  attentions  she  had 
repulsed  one  after  another,  and  in  no  uncertain 
terms.  If  she  spoke  or  thought  of  him  at  all,  it 
was  as  "that  drunken  slouch,  Cass  Blake,"  precisely 
as  most  of  Randolph  had  characterized  him.  No 
one  had  liked  him;  by  all  he  was  regarded  with 
suspicious  aversion.  The  brutal  bestiality  of  his 
crime  at  the  Foster  farm  fanned  into  sudden  flame 
the  hatred  that  had  long  been  smoldering  against 
him. 

Just  as  a  loaded  shell,  exploding  in  the  midst 
of  a  fire,  scatters  embers  to  the  four  winds,  so  the 
news  of  the  tragedy  scattered  over  the  whole 

90 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  91 

country-side  parties  of  men  intent  on  the  capture 
of  the  criminal.  They  went  about  the  work  quietly, 
almost  stolidly,  yet  with  a  certain  grim  determina- 
tion that  was  more  ominous  than  any  display  of 
excitement.  Bill  Murray,  the  giant  teamster  from 
the  mills,  whom  Dick  had  sworn  in  as  sheriff's 
deputy,  epitomized  their  set  finality  of  purpose  in 
the  three  words  he  spoke  to  Norah  Foster's  father: 
"We  '11  get  him." 

Randolph  slept  little  that  night.  It  watched 
the  sporadic  gleams  of  the  lanterns  that  flickered 
among  the  distant  trees ;  it  listened  intently  to  catch 
the  occasional  shouts,  now  faint  and  far  off,  now 
sounding  nearer,  as  the  man-hunt  circled  the  town. 
The  breath  of  the  vagrant  wind  was  tainted  with 
the  pungent  smell  of  flaring  torches,  vibrant  with 
the  deep-throated  baying  of  dogs  at  fault  over  a 
broken,  illusive  trail.  Somewhere  in  the  valley,  or 
among  its  girding  hills,  a  wild  beast  lurked.  He 
must  be  found  and  driven  from  his  hiding-place. 
They  meant  to  "get  him." 

And  he  knew  it.  The  first  bell-clear  note  that 
echoed  through  the  ravine  caught  him,  quivering, 
up  from  the  ground  where  he  had  thrown  himself 
to  get  his  breath.  He  could  not  tell  from  which 
direction  the  sound  had  come.  There  was  no  moon ; 
the  pale  starlight  did  not  penetrate  the  thick  leaves 
and  undergrowth.  The  woods  were  black,  formless. 


92  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

The  dog  bayed  again,  nearer  this  time;  another 
and  another  took  up  the  chorus. 

He  ran.  .  .  . 

To  get  away,  somewhere,  anywhere!  To  hide! 
They  must  n't  catch  him.  He  must  n't  let  them 
catch  him.  If  they  did — 

Fear  was  everywhere.  The  darkness  was  peopled 
by  his  enemies.  The  heavier  shadows  under  the 
trees  were  alive.  The  little  night  voices  of  the 
woods  beat  in  his  ears  and  mingled  with  the  voices 
of  the  hounds,  confusedly.  He  stumbled  through 
a  birch  thicket  and  out  upon  a  well-defined  trail. 
There  was  water  down  there  somewhere.  The  dogs 
couldn't  follow  through  water.  But  this  trail — 
somebody  might  be  watching — 

A  partridge  rose  with  a  sudden  thunderous  whir 
of  wings.  He  screamed — turned — plunged  back 
through  the  thicket. 

To  get  away  ...  to  get  away!  Somewhere. 
Anywhere.  He  must  n't  be  caught — God ! — he 
must  n't  be  caugjit. 

Blind,  mad  with  terror,  he  stumbled  on  in  the 
darkness.  Over  ledges,  where  jagged  spurs  of  rock 
bruised  and  cut  him.  Through  brambles,  where 
thorns  caught  and  tore  at  his  flesh.  Invisible  trees 
rose  up  in  front  of  him,  striking  him  violently. 
Trailing  vines  twined  themselves  around  his  ankles 
and  tripped  him.  A  hundred  times  he  fell.  A  hun- 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  93 

dred  times  he  struggled  to  his  feet,  and  ran  on,  dodg- 
ing, doubling,  turning  now  this  way,  now  that.  His 
coat  was  gone.  The  tatters  of  his  shirt  were 
stripped  from  his  shoulders.  Bruised,  bleeding,  his 
breath  coming  in  short  gasps  that  racked  his  aching 
lungs,  he  ran  and  fell.  And  ran  and  fell  again. 

He  had  lost  all  sense  of  direction,  all  sense  of 
time.  He  must  get  away.  He  must  n't  get  caught. 
He  knew  nothing,  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  fear 
and  hate — fear  that  held  him  in  its  panic  grip 
and  lashed  him  with  every  twig  that  crackled  under- 
foot, every  slightest  sound  that  broke  the  silence; 
hate,  blind,  aimless,  all-embracing,  for  everything 
that  lived  and  moved  and  was  free  to  follow  after 
him.  All  that  had  ever  been  human  in  Cass  Blake 
was  swallowed  up,  obliterated,  in  those  two  emo- 
tions. 

When,  just  in  the  gray  of  the  early  daylight,  he 
staggered  over  the  crest  of  a  pine  ridge,  and  half 
crawled,  half  dragged  himself  to  cover,  the  two  had 
merged  into  one.  Hate.  The  same  savage  in- 
stinct that  turns  a  panther  at  bay  when  the  pack  cries 
at  its  heels.  Crouching,  with  bared  fang  and  claw, 
it  waits  its  chance  to  spring  and  strike.  And  so  Cass 
Blake  crouched,  while  the  meshes  of  the  net  drew 
ever  closer  and  closer  around  him.  He  had  killed 
once ;  he  would  kill  again.  He  lay  there  in  the  dark, 
his  thick  fingers  twitching  on  the  butt  of  his  gun. 


94  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

Waiting.  Watching.  Listening  to  the  hunt  sweep- 
ing down  into  the  valley. 

The  rising  sun  caught  up  the  streamers  of  mist 
that  veiled  the  dawn  as  Dick  Leighton's  posse 
splashed  through  the  bed  of  a  shallow  brook  and 
turned  down-stream.  Twenty  years  before,  the 
brook,  pressed  back  into  a  deep  pond,  had  foamed 
and  dashed  over  the  rim  of  a  primitive  dam,  from 
which  ran  the  flume  that  carried  power  to  the  iron 
turbine  of  one  of  the  most  prosperous  sawmills  in  the 
county.  Now  the  water  trickled  lazily  through  a 
hundred  openings  in  the  shattered  dam  and  mean- 
dered on  its  peaceful  way  down  through  the  valley; 
the  flume,  its  rotted  boards  rent  and  gaping,  was 
almost  hidden  under  a  rank  growth  of  vines  and 
weeds. 

The  mill  itself  was  rapidly  falling  into  disinte- 
gration. The  boards  were  warped  and  weather- 
bitten  ;  the  foundations  had  settled,  throwing  all  the 
supporting  beams  out  of  plumb.  The  whole  struc- 
ture looked  on  the  point  of  collapse.  Up  to  the  very 
door,  sagging  on  its  rusty  hinges,  tall  grass  grew.  A 
mottled  lizard,  sunning  himself  on  a  rotting  log, 
scuttled  away  to  cover  at  the  approach  of  the  posse. 

"Think  they  're  barkin'  up  the  right  tree,  Dick?" 
Murray  asked,  reining  in  beside  the  sheriff,  as  the 
dogs  dashed  around  the  side  of  the  building  and 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  95 

bayed  and  clamored  furiously  about  the  flume. 
"Kind  o'  too  plain,  ain't  it?" 

Dick  shook  his  head. 

"That  does  n't  signify.  The  wonder  is  that  he 
has  n't  taken  to  cover  before  this.  He  has  n't  any 
plan;  his  trail  showed  that.  No  man  in  his  senses 
would  have  left  such  tracks.  He  's  just  an  animal, 
crazy  with  terror.  '  He  's  around  here  somewhere, 
Bill."  His  eyes  traveled  frowningly  over  the  sag- 
ging mill  structure,  then  across  the  shallow  brook  to 
the  meadows,  lying  green  and  peaceful  in  the  early 
sun.  He  tapped  the  ground  with  his  heel.  "He  's 
here  somewhere,  Bill,"  he  repeated.  "Look  at  those 
dogs.  And — look  there !" 

Directly  in  front  of  them  ran  the  line  of  the  old 
flume.  A  little  above  and  to  the  right,  a  narrow 
streak  of  white  in  one  of  the  mold-darkened  boards 
showed  where  a  sliver  had  been  broken  out.  The 
sliver  itself  had  fallen  to  one  side  and,  caught  across 
the  broad  leaf  of  a  shoot  of  milkweed,  balanced  up 
and  down  as  the  top  swayed  in  the  wind,  like  the 
slim  needle  of  a  compass  pointing  the  way. 

"Urn,"  observed  Murray;  "there's  that.  How 
you  goin'  to  get  him  out1?" 

Dick's  reply  was  to  draw  his  revolver  and  fling 
one  leg  over  the  side  of  the  flume. 

Murray  caught  his  arm. 

"Don't  be  a  damn'  fool !"  he  exclaimed  roughly. 


96  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"No*?"  Dick  turned  his  head  and  regarded  his 
deputy  gravely.  "Do  you  think  he  '11  come  out  if  I 
whistle4?" 

"  'T  won't  do  no  harm  to  try." 

Dick  shrugged.  "All  right,"  he  said.  He  raised 
his  voice  to  a  shout.  "Blake!  Cass  Blake!  We 
know  you  're  there.  You  may  as  well  come  out." 

Silence.  Only  the  musical  gurgle  of  water  slip- 
ping through  the  ruined  dam,  the  silken  whisper  of 
wind  among  the  leaves,  and  the  droning  of  insects. 
Dick  turned  an  ironic  smile  over  his  shoulder  at 
Murray. 

"Let  go,  Bill,"  he  said.  He  shook  his  arm  free, 
and  the  deputy  with  a  shrug  stepped  back. 

"Um-m,"  he  said.  "Well,  it's  your  funeral." 
He  made  no  further  attempt  to  interfere.  Had  he 
been  in  Dick's  place,  he  would  not  have  assigned  to 
some  one  else  a  dangerous  piece  of  work:  he  would 
have  done  it  himself.  The  sheriff  was  merely  doing 
his  duty,  and  the  deputy  accepted  the  fact ;  but  his 
face  was  set  in  grim  lines  and  his  ringers  gripped 
the  butt  of  his  revolver,  holding  it  ready  for  instant 
use. 

The  bottom  boards  of  the  flume  had  long  since 
rotted  to  a  soft,  spongy  mass,  from  which  emanated 
a  disagreeable  odor.  Here  and  there  the  side  walls 
had  given  way  altogether,  or  slanted  obliquely  to- 
ward each  other  until  they  almost  met.  Before  he 
had  gone  a  dozen  feet  Dick  was  obliged  to  drop  to  his 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  97 

hands  and  knees  in  order  to  get  ahead  at  all.  Over 
his  head  a  heavy  growth  of  briers  wove  themselves 
into  an  impenetrable  tangle,  so  densely  matted  with 
wild  morning-glory  vines  as  almost  to  shut  out  the 
light  of  day.  A  dirty  white  fungus,  mottled  with 
leprous  yellow  spots,  gave  out  a  rankly  pungent 
smell. 

At  every  movement  Dick  could  feel  the  soggy 
boards  crumble  beneath  him.  Once  some  slimy  ob- 
ject slithered  away  from  under  his  fingers;  he  could 
not  see  what  it  was.  The  place  was  filled  with  a 
wan,  ghostly  twilight.  It  was  like  a  tomb,  damp, 
moldering,  repellent  with  its  decay  of  death.  Its  air- 
less silence  was  broken  only  by  a  slow  drip — drip — 
drip  of  moisture  from  sodden  leaves  to  sodden 
ground. 

Dick  felt  his  breath  coming  hard,  not  with  fear 
but  from  sheer  physical  disgust.  Foot  by  foot,  he 
groped  his  way  forward,  eyes  straining  to  pierce  the 
gloom  ahead,  every  sense  alert  to  catch  the  slightest 
significant  sound.  Just  in  front  of  him  the  flume 
dipped  at  a  sharp  angle  into  the  penstock ;  the  shad- 
owy gulf  of  the  wheel-pit  yawned  dismally,  its 
blackness  grayed  by  the  vague  outlines  of  some  of  the 
broken  uprights  and  the  debris  of  the  old  wheel. 

Beyond,  it  seemed  that  a  darker  shadow  moved 
swiftly,  soundlessly.  And  vanished. 

"BJake !"     Dick's  voice  smote  sharply  against  his 


98  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

own  ears.  "We  know  you 're  there !  Come  out!" 
He  leaned  outward  and  downward,  searching  the 
gloom.  He  could  hear  nothing,  see  nothing.  There 
was  neither  sound  nor  movement.  "Blake!"  he  re- 
peated. "Cass  Blake!" 

A  bright  yellow  flame  flashed;  a  streak  of  fire 
darted  up  over  the  opening  of  the  penstock;  a  bullet 
sang  venomously  past  his  ear.  He  flung  himself 
flat  on  his  face,  and  almost  simultaneously  the  sound 
of  his  own  automatic  woke  the  crashing  echoes. 
There  was  a  scream,  quivering,  shrill,  like  that  of  a 
wounded  animal ;  a  rattling  fall.  And  then  a  silence 
that  seemed  to  throb  into  low,  strangled  moans. 

A  trail  of  bluish  smoke  drifted  out  under  the 
tangle  of  vines  and  briers,  and  dissolved  in  the  quiet 
air.  The  group  of  men  waiting  beside  the  flume 
watched  it  with  narrowed  eyes,  fingering  their  re- 
volvers nervously. 

"There  was  two  shots  before  Dick  let  go  with  his 
automatic,"  Jack  Capron  said.  "Don't  you  reckon 
I  'd  best  go  on  down  there,  Bill?" 

Murray  held  up  his  hand. 

"Somebody  's  comin',"  he  said  curtly. 

The  matted  vines  swayed,  heaved,  parted.  From 
the  clutching  green  tangle  the  stooping  figure  of  a 
man  emerged,  dragging  after  him  a  crumpled  dread- 
ful Thing,  a  Thing  that  might  once  have  been  hu- 
man, but  that  was  now  a  mere  formless  mass  of  torn 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  99 

clothes  and  shattered  flesh,  drenched  with  blood, 
smeared  with  mud  and  filth. 

"Is  he  dead1?"  Capron  demanded. 

"No;  he's  still  alive." 

A  sudden  guttural  murmur  swelled  through  the 
group;  there  was  a  movement  forward.  The  sheriff's 
fingers  relaxed  their  grip,  and  his  burden  slumped  to 
the  ground. 

"That  '11  do,  boys !"  he  said  sharply.  His  gray 
eyes,  steel-bright  in  the  grimy  mask  of  his  face, 
flickered  from  one  to  another  of  the  men.  "Put  up 
those  guns  and  lend  a  hand  here!" 


IX 

WHEN,  with  a  screeching  of  brake-shoes  and 
grinding  of  ponderous  wheels,  Number  Sev- 
enteen came  to  a  standstill  at  the  Randolph  station, 
only  a  single  passenger  alighted  from  the  long  string 
of  coaches,  and  stood  glancing,  in  some  surprise  and 
uncertainty,  up  and  down  the  deserted  platform. 
Number  Seventeen  was  the  only  through  train  that 
stopped  at  Randolph,  and  its  arrival  was  something 
of  an  event  in  the  daily  lives  of  the  town  loafers. 
Usually  there  were  a  dozen  of  them  yawning  on  the 
benches  and  cluttering  up  the  doorways,  gaping  at 
the  occupants  of  the  Pullmans  as  if  the  travelers 
were  rare  and  interesting  curiosities.  The  ticket 
agent  could  not  remember  when  there  had  not  been 
at  least  one  or  two  pairs  of  willing  hands  to  help  him 
with  the  baggage.  He  trotted  perspiringly  down 
the  gravel  sweep  beside  the  tracks,  wheeling  the 
truck  and  called  back  over  his  shoulder  to  Amos 
Milliken,  the  driver  of  the  stage,  to  "hurry  up,  will 
you,  Amos,  and  gimme  a  lift  on  these  here  things." 
It  was  not  until  the  two  big  trunks  had  been 

loaded  upon  the  truck  and  wheeled  back  to  the  bag- 

100 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  101 

gage-room  that  either  of  the  men  recognized  the 
solitary  passenger.  Then  the  old  stage-driver 
whipped  off  his  battered  straw  hat  and  hurried 
forward. 

"By  jux!  I  did  n't  know  ye,  Miss  Jean!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "Never  dreamed  it  was  you !  Did  n't  see 
nobody  to  meet  ye,  and  thought  ye  must  'a  missed 
the  train,  sure.  I  cal'late  your  folks  must  'a'  forgot 
all  about  ye." 

"It  looks  that  way,  doesn't  it,  Amos'?"  Jean 
Ainsworth  shook  hands  cordially  with  the  old  man 
and  with  the  station-master,  who  had  followed 
close  behind  him.  "It 's  strange  there  's  no  one 
here,"  she  said.  "I  'm  certain  they  expected  me.  I 
telegraphed,  yesterday.  But  maybe  the  message 
went  astray." 

Amos  shook  his  head. 

"No;  they  got  it  all  right.  Ike  told  me  it  come, 
and  he  took  it  up  to  the  house  hisself.  They  've 
forgot,  that 's  all." 

"I  '11  phone  'em  right  away,  shall  I4?"  volunteered 
the  station-master.  "  'Twon't  take  Tommy  more'n 
a  jiffy  to  run  over  with  the  car." 

Amos  Milliken  straightened  up. 

"I  'd  like  ter  know  what 's  the  matter  with  my 
takin'  her  up  in  the  bus1?"  said  he.  "'Twon't  be 
the  first  time  she  's  rid  in  it.  I  kin  drive  slow,  so 's 
she  won't  be  nervous." 


102  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

Jean  smiled  at  him  in  friendly  fashion. 

"That  will  be  nice,  Amos,"  she  said.  "I  'm  sure 
you  '11  take  good  care  of  me.  Shall  we  start  right 
away?  I  see  you  've  no  other  passengers."  She 
stood  talking  to  the  station-master,  while  Amos 
hobbled  off  to  bring  up  the  ancient  relic  that  for 
twenty  years  had  done  duty  as  a  stage.  She  was  a 
tall  girl,  with  a  trim,  slender  figure  that  was  set  off  to 
advantage  by  the  severe  lines  of  her  tailored  suit. 
From  under  the  brim  of  her  close-fitting  hat,  tendrils 
of  bright  hair  escaped,  to  curl  alluringly  over  her 
small  ears,  and  ripple  into  rebellious  waves  across 
her  forehead.  She  carried  herself  well;  there  was 
an  alert  grace  about  every  move  and  gesture. 

"I  '11  send  them  trunks  up  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning,  sure,"  the  agent  promised,  hoisting  Jean's 
suitcase  up  beside  the  driver's  seat  on  the  stage. 
"Mebbe  to-night,  if  I  can  get  some  o'  them  lazy 
slouches  on  the  job.  They  're  all  so  het  up  over 
Norah  Foster  that  it  ain't  likely  they  '11  show  up, 
though." 

Milliken  climbed  rheumatically  down  from  his 
perch  on  the  narrow  front  seat,  and  he  and  the  sta- 
tion-master gallantly  assisted  Jean  into  the  vehicle, 
one  on  each  side  of  her.  Then  the  aged  driver 
climbed  back,  flourished  his  whip,  shouted  wheezily 
at  the  horses,  and  the  start  was  made. 

The  macadam  of  Bridge  Street  was  being  re- 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  103 

paired,  and  Milliken,  in  deference  to  the  comfort  of 
his  passenger,  took  the  longer  route  across  the  upper 
bridge.  On  the  way  he  regaled  Jean  with  a  gar- 
rulously circumstantial  account  of  the  Foster  murder, 
interrupting  himself  at  frequent  intervals  to  yell  at 
his  team,  which  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to 
him,  but  pursued  their  placid  way  at  their  customary 
jog-trot.  Ten  minutes  brought  them  to  Hill  Street. 
They  slowed  down  to  a  walk,  and  plodded  up  the 
steep  incline  to  Summit  Street. 

The  old  Randolph  place  on  the  corner  was  just  as 
Jean  remembered  it.  Nothing  had  been  changed. 
Even  the  grass  on  the  front  lawn  was  a  little  over- 
long.  The  Judge  had  liked  and  kept  it  that  way. 
Almost  the  girl  expected  to  see  him,  bareheaded, 
shirt-sleeved,  pottering  about  in  the  old-fashioned 
garden  where  he  had  successfully  grown  everything 
from  turnips  to  Jacqueminot  roses.  Some  of  the 
roses  were  in  bloom  now,  great  splashes  of  crimson, 
gorgeous  among  the  rich  green  of  the  leaves.  Most 
of  the  windows  were  open,  but  Dick  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen,  although  Jean  peered  eagerly  about  in  the 
hope  of  a  glimpse  of  him.  Indeed,  the  street,  like 
all  the  other  streets  through  which  the  stage  had 
passed,  seemed  to  be  deserted.  A  beagle  hound, 
asleep  in  a  sunny  corner  by  some  stone  steps,  was  the 
only  living  creature  within  view. 

The  first  sight  of  the  big  white  house  on  the  cor- 


104          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

ncr  of  Mountain  Avenue  sent  a  queer,  tingling  thrill 
over  Jean.  Home! 

Amos  drew  up  close  to  the  curb.  She  paid  him, 
thanked  him,  and,  declining  his  offer  of  assistance, 
picked  up  her  bag  and  walked  slowly  up  the  well- 
swept  walk,  drinking  in,  with  eyes  that  were  a  little 
misty,  every  detail  of  the  familiar  scene  that  she  had 
so  often  reconstructed  in  memory.  The  garage  was 
new;  it  had  not  been  built  when  she  went  away. 
But  there  was  the  squatty  little  tool  house,  where 
Ezra  kept  his  precious  garden  implements  under 
rigorous  lock  and  key;  there  was  the  old  well, 
picturesque  as  ever  in  its  green  moss  velvet;  there 
was  the  inevitable  bed  of  geraniums,  a  seven-pointed 
salmon  star;  there  was  the  summer-house,  its  roof 
just  visible  beyond  the  sweep  of  the  grape  arbor. 
Home.  And  after  four  years'  absence  there  seemed 
to  be  no  one  to  bid  her  welcome  back  to  it.  There 
had  been  some  mistake,  of  course,  some  misunder- 
standing. Nevertheless,  Jean  was  unable,  for  the 
moment,  to  banish  the  feeling  of  almost  childish 
hurt  and  disappointment  that  had  come  to  her  when, 
on  leaving  the  train,  she  had  seen  that  long,  empty 
stretch  of  platform. 

The  front  door  stood  wide.  The  screen  was  not 
hooked.  Jean  opened  it  and  stepped  quietly  into 
the  cool  half-light  of  the  hall.  From  the  library 
came  a  subdued  rustling  sound,  as  of  the  pages  of  a 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  105 

newspaper  being  turned  over.  An  undulating  spiral 
of  cigar  smoke  drifted  through  the  doorway.  Jean 
tiptoed  forward  and  drew  aside  the  portieres. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "does  n't  anybody  want  to  see 
me?  Shall  I  go  away  again*?" 

"Jean!"  Miss  Nestor's  sewing-basket  fell  to  the 
floor;  spools  and  buttons  rolled  in  all  directions  un- 
heeded. Ainsworth  dropped  his  paper  and  hurried 
to  the  door.  There  was  a  flurry  of  excited  greetings, 
exclamations,  kisses.  Finally,  Jean  disengaged  her- 
self gently  from  her  aunt's  embrace,  and  slipped  one 
arm  about  the  little  lady's  shoulders,  the  while  re- 
taining her  warm  clasp  of  her  father's  hand. 

Looking  up  at  her  adoringly  through  wet  lashes, 
Miss  Nestor  thought  how  closely  she  resembled  her 
mother.  There  was  the  same  proud  poise  of  the 
head,  the  same  gracious  line  of  the  mouth  and  chin, 
at  once  firm  and  tender.  But  there  was  this  very 
decided  difference:  Alice  Ainsworth's  eyes  had  been 
quiet,  heavy-lidded,  patient;  her  daughter's  were 
quick,  restless,  sparkling  with  laughter  one  instant, 
introspectively  grave  the  next.  They  were  what 
Alice  Ainsworth  herself  had  called  "seeking  eyes." 
Just  now,  they  were  brimming  with  gladness,  yet 
a  shadow  of  wistfulness  troubled  their  depths.  She 
said: 

"I  don't  believe  you  're  a  bit  glad  to  see  me, 
any  of  you!  I  got  off  the  train  expecting  to  be 


106          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

welcomed  with  open  arms,  and  there  was  n't  a  soul 
in  sight  except  Amos  Milliken.  I  was  so  glad  to  see 
a  familiar  face  that  I  almost  hugged  him.  I  did,  I 
assure  you,  Father.  Where  's  Tommy?" 

"Why,  he  went  down  to  meet  you,"  said  Ains- 
worth.  "I  should  have  gone  myself,  but  he  made 
a  point  of  driving  you  back  in  the  new  roadster. 
I  don't  understand  his  not  being  there;  he's  been 
gone  some  time." 

"Probably  he  counted  on  the  train  being  late," 
Jean  suggested.  "But  for  the  first  time  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  road  it  arrived  on  the  minute." 

Her  father  smiled. 

"Well,  I  tell  you,  Jean,  things  are  improving 
here!  Even  the  railroad  realizes  our  growing  im- 
portance and  shows  us  consideration.  The  trains 
are  not  nearly  as  late  as  they  used  to  be.  I  'm  glad 
yours  was  on  time  to-day;  it's  an  irksome  trip  at 
best." 

"Come  and  sit  down,  dear,"  Miss  Nestor  urged 
anxiously.  "You  must  be  very  tired.  Here,  take 
this  chair,  and  I'll  get  you  a  cup  of  tea." 

But  Jean  protested  that  she  was  not  in  the  least 
tired,  and  she  had  had  tea  on  the  train.  She  was 
in  high  spirits;  she  talked  rapidly,  animatedly, 
bubbling  over  with  happy  excitement.  Her  ad- 
miring comments  on  the  hospital — she  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  it  from  the  train  window — 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  107 

brought  a  glow  of  gratification  to  Ainsworth's  face. 

"I  'm  very  glad  you  're  pleased  with  the  location, 
Jean,"  he  said.  "And  I  think  you  will  approve  of 
the  interior  arrangements,  too.  Naturally,  the 
building  is  pretty  bare  now ;  there  's  very  little  in 
it,  because  I  knew  you  would  prefer  to  supervise  the 
equipment  in  person." 

Jean  nodded. 

"It  will  be  perfectly  wonderful,  Father.  I  've 
a  headful  of  ideas  that  I  'm  dying  to  try  out;  but 
I  shall  want  lots  of  advice  and  help." 

"Doctor  Evans  is  holding  himself  in  readiness  to 
consult  with  you,"  Ainsworth  said.  "A  very 
worthy  man,  Evans.  Of  course,  he  has  his  limita- 
tions, but  within  them  he  's  quite  competent.  I  've 
told  him  you  would  let  him  know  when  you  felt 
sufficiently  rested  to  begin  the  work." 

"I  feel  sufficiently  rested  right  now!"  declared 
Jean  gaily.  "And  I  '11  be  awfully  glad  to  work 
with  Doctor  Evans.  I  like  him  immensely.  I 
thought  I  saw  him  just  as  I  was  leaving  the  station, 
driving  like  a  lunatic  across  the  bridge,  but  the  car 
was  so  far  off  I  could  n't  be  sure.  I  thought  per- 
haps there  might  have  been  an  accident  downtown. 
The  bus  came  around  through  the  upper  road,  but 
it  looked  to  me  as  though  there  were  a  big  crowd  in 
the  Square,  and  there  was  a  lot  of  noise." 

"Probably  something  to  do  with  the  Foster  mur- 


io8          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

der,  I  should  say.  A  particularly  brutal  crime  was 
committed  yesterday,  and  the  criminal  is  still  at 
large." 

Jean's  bright  face  clouded. 

"I  know,"  she  said.  "Amos  was  talking  about  it 
on  the  way  over.  Poor  Norah !  She  never  harmed 
any  one  or  anything  in  all  her  life.  And  Matt 
Foster — what  on  earth  will  he  do,  Father?  He  's 
always  been  such  a  useless,  futile  sort  of  man;  he 
depended  on  Norah  for  everything." 

Miss  Nester  shuddered. 

"It 's  dreadful !  That  such  a  thing  could  happen 
in  a  civilized  community!  Every  time  I  think  of 
that  wretch,  my  blood  boils.  The  whole  town  is 
up  in  arms,  and  Mr.  Leighton  has  had  posses  search- 
ing for  him  since  yesterday  afternoon.  Tommy  was 
with  one  of  them." 

"Oh!"  Jean  exclaimed.  "Of  course!  That's 
why  Dick  wasn't  at  the  station  to  meet  me!  He 
wrote  me  he  'd  surely  be  there." 

"Mr.  Leighton  wrote  you  he  'd  meet  you  at  the 
station*?"  Ains worth  ignored  Miss  Nestor's  warn- 
ing glance.  "Mr.  Leighton?" 

"Yes.     He—" 

The  front  door  was  suddenly  flung  open,  and 
Tommy,  hatless  and  out  of  breath,  rushed  into  the 
room. 

"They've    caught    Blake!"    he    shouted.     And 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  109 

then,  catching  sight  of  his  sister,  he  gave  a  loud, 
joyous  whoop.  "Jean!  oh,  Jean!"  There  was 
no  doubt  of  the  sincerity  of  his  welcome. 

Laughing,  disheveled,  she  emerged  from  his  bear- 
like  hug  and  held  him  at  arm's  length. 

"You  bad  boy!  What  do  you  mean  by  not 
meeting  me?  I  had  to  come  up  all  alone,  like  a 
poor  relation." 

Tommy  grinned  sheepishly. 

"Well,  I  started,  all  right,"  he  defended  himself. 
"Honest,  I  did.  I  had  all  kinds  of  time.  I  was 
going  to  make  a  big  splash  with  the  new  roadster 
and  drive  you  up  in  style.  But  when  I  went 
through  the  Square,  Leighton's  posse  was  just  bring- 
ing in  Blake,  and — I  stopped  for  a  minute.  But 
only  for  a  minute,  Sis.  Just  as  soon  as  I  could  get 
clear  of  the  crowd,  I  beat  it  for  the  station,  but  the 
blamed  train  was  on  time,  and  you  'd  gone.  I  'm 
no  end  sorry." 

"Never  mind ;  it  does  n't  matter  a  bit,  not  a  single 
bit.  Oh,  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you !"  She  hugged 
him  again,  ecstatically.  "And  you  've  really  grown 
up !  Tommy — why,  Tommy,  you  're  getting  to  be 
a  great  big  man!"  She  whirled  him  around  in  a 
gay  little  dance,  almost  colliding  with  the  maid, 
Kitty,  who  had  come  to  the  door,  and,  after  several 
abortive  attempts,  had  finally  succeeded  in  attract- 
ing the  attention  of  the  Congressman. 


110 

"Mr.  McAllister4?  Why,  yes;  of  course.  Tell 
him  to  come  in,  Kitty." 

"Ah!  The  great  and  only  McAllister!"  scoffed 
Jean,  softly.  "Is  he  as  big  a  fraud  as  ever,  Aunt 
Mary?' 

"Worse,  my  dear!" 

"And  then  some!"  nodded  Tommy.  "When  he 
talks  to  a  woman,  you  'd  think  she  had  Helen  of 
Troy  backed  clean  off  the  boards." 

McAllister  was  a  tall,  heavily  built  man,  gray  of 
hair,  ruddy  of  complexion.  He  had  a  ready  smile, 
and  his  manners  were  elaborate.  It  was  generally 
admitted  that  he  "had  a  way  with  the  ladies."  His 
stock  of  compliments,  carefully  sorted  and  classified 
to  suit  the  generation  and  individual,  had  a  strong 
mid-Victorian  flavor;  but  they  were  none  the  less 
highly  prized  and  coquettishly  angled  for  by  more 
than  one  hopeful  spinster,  who  thought  it  a  sin  and 
a  shame  that  such  a  fine  figure  of  a  man  should  be 
alone  in  the  world,  and  who  cast  secretly  covetous 
glances  at  the  neat  brick  house  a  few  blocks  from 
"The  Register"  office. 

But  to  Samuel  McAllister  the  shrines  of  love  were 
many.  He  worshiped  at  them  all,  floridly,  openly, 
yet  with  a  wary  discretion.  Entirely  satisfied  with 
his  unregenerate  bachelorhood,  he  had  no  mind  to 
exchange  it  for  the  doubtful  blessings  of  matrimony. 
Had  he  possessed  a  wife,  he  would  undoubtedly 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  ill 

have  beaten  her:  he  was  a  firm  believer  in  the  doc- 
trine of  the  woman,  the  dog,  and  the  walnut-tree. 
As  far  as  he  was  concerned,  there  was  no  God  but 
David  Ainsworth,  and  Samuel  McAllister  was  his 
prophet — which  is  to  say  that  he  recognized  Ains- 
worth's  vast  superiority  of  brain,  and  bowed  to  it 
as  he  bowed  to  nothing  else  on  the  earth  beneath,  in 
the  heavens  above,  or  in  the  waters  under  the  earth. 
He  did  what  Ainsworth  told  him  to  do.  Occasion- 
ally, he  offered  an  opinion  or  a  suggestion;  seldom 
did  he  venture  to  criticize.  He  knew  his  own 
power  and  prestige  and  that  of  his  paper,  but  he  was 
shrewd  enough  to  realize  that  he  shone  by  reflected 
light,  rather  than  by  any  glory  of  his  own.  The 
actual  words  that  appeared  in  "The  Register"  edi- 
torials were  Samuel  McAllister's;  the  spirit  that 
animated  them  was  David  Ainsworth's. 

When  he  entered  the  library,  McAllister's  start 
of  pleasure  at  seeing  Jean  was  not  entirely  feigned : 
he  had  always  considered  her  well  worth  looking 
at. 

"Well,  well !     My  dear  Miss  Ainsworth !" 
"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  McAllister?" 
"Much  better  for  seeing  you!"     He  hurried  for- 
ward to  take  the  hand  she  extended  and  bowed  over 
it    effusively.     "'How    splendid    you    are    looking, 
is  she  not?" — turning  to  the  others  for  confirmation. 
"Upon  my  word,  what  is  the  matter  with  the  men 


112  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

in  New  York  that  they  let  you  get  away1?     Are 
they  all  blind?" 

Jean  smiled. 

"No  wonder  you  're  a  successful  politician — they 
tell  me  you  are,  Mr.  McAllister — if  you  have  such 
pretty  speeches  on  tap  all  the  time !" 

"If  my  success  depended  on  that,   Miss  Ains- 
worth," — he  stood  a  little  away  from  her  and  lifted 
one  hand  to  his  heart — "if  it  depended  on  that, 
alone,  and  I  could  have  you  for  my  inspiration,  I 
should  be  President !" 

"Oh,  you  're  incorrigible !" 

He  turned  to  Miss  Nestor.  It  was  not  his  way 
to  neglect  any  one. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Miss  Nestor!"  he  said  blandly. 
"How  well  you  are  looking  to-day.  I  saw  you  in 
the  garden  this  morning  as  I  was  passing  the  house, 
and  I  said  to  myself  that  no  wonder  the  flowers 
flourished.  Roses  would  grow  in  a  desert  for  your 
smile!" 

Miss  Nestor  blushed. 

"Here,  here !"  she  exclaimed,  trying  to  cover  her 
confusion.  "You  're  not  talking  to  Jean,  Mr. 
McAllister." 

"I  might  almost  fancy  that  I  were,"  he  said. 
"You  are  as  much  alike  as  two  of  your  own  blos- 
soms. One  is  the  bud,  the  other  the  rose  in  full 
bloom." 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  113 

"Oh,  gee!"  Tommy  threw  back  his  head  and 
whistled  at  the  ceiling.  "This  is  sure  some  flowery 
conversation,  what*?" 

"If  that  was  meant  for  a  joke,  Tommy,"  Jean  said 
severely,  "you  ought  to  have  provided  it  with  a  la- 
bel." 

"It's  not  a  joke;  it's  an  outrage,"  Ainsworth 
declared,  and  joined  in  the  laughter  that  followed 
his  own  little  pleasantry.  He  was  in  his  most 
cordial  humor.  Jean  had  come  home.  True,  the 
manner  of  her  coming  was  far  from  his  preconceived 
idea:  he  had  considered  at  some  length  the  way  in 
which  he  would  receive  her,  when,  the  glamour  of 
her  romantic  enthusiasm  dulled  by  contact  with 
sordid  realities,  conscience-stricken  at  having  acted 
in  defiance  to  his  expressed  wishes,  she  should  return, 
humbled  and  chastened,  to  his  roof;  and  he  had 
been  chagrined  that  at  no  time  during  her  protracted 
absence  had  she  displayed  the  slightest  indication 
that  she  was  either  penitent  or  self-reproachful. 
On  the  contrary,  she  had  appeared  to  consider  her 
position  and  behavior  entirely  reasonable;  she  had 
neither  sought  for  pardon  nor  admitted,  even 
tacitly,  that  she  had  erred. 

The  suggestion  that  she  return  to  Randolph  as 
superintendent  of  the  new  hospital  had  not  been 
made  by  her ;  she  had  even  hesitated  about  accepting 
the  appointment.  Still,  she  had  accepted  it;  and 


114  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

her  father  had  convinced  himself  that  her  consent 
constituted  a  victory  for  him. 

As  she  had  capitulated,  then,  he  was  disposed 
to  be  affable.  He  deferred  to  Miss  Nestor,  and 
paid  Jean  a  very  neatly  turned  compliment,  to  the 
surprised  perturbation  of  McAllister,  who,  con- 
fronted by  an  unexpected  rival  in  his  own  particu- 
lar field,  was  spurred  to  fresh  flights  of  metaphor. 

Jean  was  amused  and  touched  by  her  father's 
unwonted  unbending.  She  did  not  entirely  follow 
his  psychological  processes,  but  she  surmised,  and 
rightly,  that  his  pleasure  in  her  home-coming  was 
sincere.  Was  it  possible,  she  asked  herself,  that 
she  had  underestimated  his  affection  for  her?  Had 
much  of  his  seeming  hardness  come  from  a  lack 
of  understanding,  not  so  much  on  his  part  as  on 
her  own*?  Here  was  food  {pr  thought,  indeed! 

She  looked  at  him  with  new  eyes,  instinctively 
preparing  to  adjust  herself  to  this  new  angle,  men- 
tally picturing  the  different  and  delightful  relation- 
ship that  would  be  theirs  in  the  future,  a  relationship 
devoid  of  antagonism  and  based  on  mutual  respect 
and  toleration. 


MUSING  thus,  but  half  hearing  the  ornate 
peroration  in  which  McAllister  was  indulg- 
ing, Jean's  attention  was  caught  by  Kitty's  voice  at 
the  door,  announcing:  "Mr.  Leighton  is  here  to  see 
you,  Mr.  Ainsworth." 

Instantly  the  Congressman's  manner  changed. 
His  smile  vanished,  and  his  affability  with  it. 

"Tell  Mr.  Leighton  I  can't  see  him,  Kitty;  I  'm 
engaged,"  he  said. 

"But,  Father,  it 's  Dick!"  Jean  exclaimed.  She 
half  rose  from  her  chair.  Taken  by  surprise,  her 
hasty  inference  was  that  her  father  had  failed  to 
grasp  the  identity  of  his  caller.  "It-'s  Dick  Leigh- 
ton,  Father !"  she  repeated,  and  Kitty  added  respect- 
fully: "He  said  he  wanted  to  speak  to  you  most 
particular,  Mr.  Ainsworth,  but  I  was  to  tell  you  it 
would  n't  take  only  a*  minute." 

Ainsworth  hesitated,  frowning.  He  glanced  at 
McAllister,  but  that  gentleman  was  intent  on  the 
view  from  the  side  window.  The  Congressman 
made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"Very  well,  Kitty.     Show  him  in." 

115 


n6  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

Tommy,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  strolled  over 
to  the  side  of  McAllister. 

"I  '11  say  he  's  got  his  nerve  with  him !"  he  re- 
marked in  an  undertone.  "What  do  you  suppose 
he  wants  Father  for"?"  He  half  turned  about,  a 
look  of  insolent  curiosity  on  his  face,  as  Dick  Leigh- 
ton,  the  mud  scarcely  dried  on  his  riding-boots  and 
breeches,  and  followed  by  his  deputy,  Murray, 
appeared  in  the  doorway.  He  had  hardly  crossed 
the  threshold  when  Jean  went  swiftly  forward  to 
meet  him,  both  hands  outstretched.  At  the  sight 
of  her,  the  tense  gravity  of  his  face  was  illumined 
by  a  smile  of  eager  gladness. 

"Jean!"  In  the  name  on  his  lips,  there  was 
reverence  and  homage  and  adoration,  and  a  sort  of 
keen  yearning  that  swept  them  into  a  swimming 
little  world  peopled  with  their  two  selves,  bounded 
and  horizoned  by  that  which  welled  up  in  their 
hearts.  So,  for  a  momenj:,  they  stood  there,  with 
hands  and  eyes  that  clung;  oblivious  to  angry  and 
anxious  glances  alike,  unconscious  of  the  smoldering 
antagonism'  that  needed  but  a  breath  to  send  it 
crackling  into  open  hostility.  Neither  spoke. 
They  had  no  need  for  words.  But  the  message 
that  their  eyes  conveyed,  each  to  the  other,  was  plain 
for  all  in  the  room  to  read. 

Dick  was  the  first  to  recover  himself,  to  realize 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  117 

that  they  were  not  alone.  He  released  Jean's 
hands  and  stepped  back  a  pace,  with  a  courteous 
bow  that  included  every  one  present.  Miss  Nestor's 
pleasant  if  rather  embarrassed  greeting  was  in 
marked  contrast  to  the  Congressman's  icily  formal 
"Mr.  Leighton,"  and  Tommy  did  not  acknowledge 
the  salutation  at  all.  He  leaned  against  the  win- 
dow-casing and  clicked  his  heel  on  the  wainscot, 
pursing  his  lips  in  an  insolent  whistle.  Dick  felt 
the  sharp  hostility  now,  and  stiffened  himself  to 
meet  it.  Jean  felt  it  and  bewilderedly  sought  for 
its  meaning. 

It  was  McAllister  who  broke  the  tension. 

"Well,  I  hear  you  got  him,  Leighton,"  he  said 
briskly.  "I  was  coming  along  just  as  you  brought 
him  in,  but  I  did  n't  stop  for  details.  Where  did 
you  find  him*?" 

"Out  at  the  old  sawmill,  beyond  Watkins's  farm," 
Dick  answered. 

"You  don't  say!  He  gave  you  a  real  chase, 
didn't  he1?  Did  he  make  you  any  trouble?" 

"A  little.  But  after  we  discovered  just  where 
he  was  hidden,  it  was  a  simple  enough  matter  to 
drive  him  out." 

Murray  rumbled  out  a  great  guffaw. 

"Simple?"  he  ejaculated.     "My  aunt!" 

"Was  he  armed?"  Jean  queried.     Except  for  one 


ii8  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

quick,  puzzled  glance  about,  her  eyes  had  not  left 
Dick's  face  since  he  entered  the  room. 

"You  bet  he  was." 

Miss  Nestor  leaned  forward,  her  nervousness 
eclipsed  by  her  curiosity. 

"And  did  he  shoot,  Mr.  Leighton'?"  she  asked, 
with  breathless  interest. 

"Yes.  He  got  in  two  shots,  but  he  did  n't  hit 
anybody;  and  then  he  got  hit,  himself,  and  every- 
thing was  all  right." 

"Urn!  Then  it  was,"  Murray  grunted.  "That 
cuss  had  crawled  down  the  old  flume  an'  hid  in  the 
wheel-pit.  Dick  had  to  crawl  down  after  him, 
right  into  his  gun."  He  swung  'round  and  pointed 
a  long  forefinger.  "If  you  had  n't  'a'  got  him  when 
you  did,  son,  there — " 

"Noble  Six  Hundred !"  murmured  Tommy,  with 
disagreeable  irony. 

"That  '11  do,  Bill,"  Dick  interposed,  as  Murray 
would  have  continued.  "Nobody  wants  to  hear 
about  it." 

"But  we  do,  Dick !"  Jean  insisted.  "What  hap- 
pened then?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing!"  he  told  her  almost 
curtly.  "We  both  fired,  and  I  was  lucky,  that 's 
all.  Blake  wasn't." 

"Urn.  No;  he  weren't,"  agreed  Murray. 
"Looks  like  a  sieve." 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  119 

"Is  he  badly  hurt1?"  Jean  asked,  and  Dick  nodded. 

"Yes,  he  is.  And" — turning  to  the  Congress- 
man— "that  is  what  I  came  to  see  you  about,  Mr. 
Ainsworth." 

"In  what  way,  may  I  ask,  does  it  concern  me?" 
Ainsworth's  tone  was  studiedly  impersonal.  He 
had  remained  standing;  nor  had  he  indicated  that 
his  callers  should  sit. 

"Why,  simply  that  when  we  were  bringing  Blake 
into  town,  he  was  seized  with  a  hemorrhage,  and 
we  were  obliged  to  take  him  to  the  hospital." 

A  spark  glowed  behind  the  opacity  of  Ainsworth's 
eyes.  He  said  angrily: 

"What?     To  the  hospital?     It  is  n't  open." 

"Doctor  Evans  had  a  key,  and  one  of  the  rooms 
was  in  sufficiently  good  shape  to  serve  the  purpose." 

"What  was  the  matter  with  the  jail?" 

"There  was  no  time  to  take  him  there.  We  had 
to  rush  him  into  the  first  place  we  could  find.  I 
should  have  consulted  you,  but  we  were  obliged  to 
act  quickly." 

"You  had  your  nerve  with  you,"  struck  in 
Tommy. 

Dick  wheeled  on  him. 

"I  am  explaining  to  your  father  that  it  was 
necessary,"  he  said  sharply. 

The  Congressman  darted  a  silencing  look  at  his 
son,  before  he  said : 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"It  may  have  seemed  so,  Mr.  Leighton,  but  could 
you  not  have  made  temporary  arrangements  for  him 
elsewhere?" 

"I  could  not,  sir !  He  had  to  have  proper  medi- 
cal aid  and  attention  at  once,  or  he  would  have  died 
from  loss  of  blood.  The  hospital  was  the  logical, 
indeed,  the  only  place  for  him." 

Jean  had  been  listening  in  puzzled  dismay.  Her 
father's  chill  formality  and  Tommy's  open  malevo- 
lence were  no  less  incomprehensible  to  her  than 
was  this  cryptic  attitude  in  regard  to  the  hospital. 
What  was  such  an  institution  for,  if  not  to  receive 
the  sick  and  suffering*?  To  be  sure,  Cass  Blake  was 
a  criminal,  but  common  humanity  demanded  that 
every  effort  be  made  to  save  his  life.  And  her 
father  both  spoke  and  acted  as  if  Dick  had  done 
something  reprehensible !  Of  course,  he  really  im- 
plied nothing  of  the  sort,  but  almost  any  one  might 
believe  that  he  did.  So  anxious  was  she  that  Dick 
Leighton  should  draw  no  such  mistaken  inference 
that  she  stepped  forward,  saying  with  impulsive 
cordiality : 

"Why,  of  course,  Dick !  Father  does  n't  mean 
that  what  you  did  was  n't  perfectly  all  right." 

"I  dare  say  you  meant  well,  Mr.  Leighton,"  the 
Congressman  went  on,  "but  I  think  you  acted 
hastily." 

"Prompt  action  was  necessary  if  the  man's  life 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  121 

were  to  be  saved,"  retorted  Dick.  "I  acted  accord- 
ing to  my  best  judgment."  His  head  went  -up  a 
little,  as  he  added  firmly:  "I  regret  that  you  feel 
as  you  do,  Mr.  Ainsworth,  but  I  was  entirely  within 
the  rights  of  my  office.  I  merely  stopped  out  of 
courtesy,  to  acquaint  you  with  what  I  had  done." 
For  a  moment  his  level  eyes  held  the  Congressman's, 
coldly  antagonistic.  Then,  with  a  slight  inclina- 
tion of  his  head,  he  turned  to  Jean.  "I  hope  to 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  soon,  Jean,"  he 
said. 

"Of  course,  Dick!     This  evening1?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  'm  sorry,  but  I  '11  have  to  be  at  the  hospital. 
Murray  is  going  up  to  relieve  the  guard  now,  and 
I  shall  relieve  him  as  soon  as  I  've  had  my  supper. 
I  '11  have  to  be  there  all  night.  May  I  telephone 
you  to-morrow4?" 

"Do !"  She  gave  him  her  hand  and  he  pressed  it 
warmly.  Then,  with  a  bow  that  included  all  in 
the  room,  he  turned  to  the  door. 

"Observe  his  modest  bearing!"  Tommy  sneered. 
He  made  no  effort  to  lower  his  voice;  it  was  dis- 
tinctly audible  to  Dick,  who  turned  a  half-amused, 
half-cynical  glance  over  his  shoulder  at  the  glower- 
ing youth.  He  was  not  in  the  least  disturbed  by 
Tommy's  churlishness,  understanding  as  he  did,  and 
to  a  certain  extent  sympathizing  with,  the  spirit  of 


122  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

fierce  partizanship  that  lay  at  the  root  of  the  boy's 
behavior. 

But  Jean  had  no  such  insight.  She  only  knew 
that  her  brother  had  acted  in  a  manner  which,  to 
say  the  least  of  it,  was  flagrantly  discourteous. 
The  blood  flamed  in  her  cheeks,  as  she  said  clearly : 

"I  hope  you  '11  overlook  my  brother's  lack  of 
breeding,  Dick!" 

Dick  smiled  at  her,  nodded,  and  was  gone.  The 
door  had  hardly  closed  behind  him  and  the  deputy, 
when  Tommy  rounded  on  Jean. 

"You  don't  have  to  apologize  for  me,  you  know !" 
he  snapped. 

"The  occasion  seemed  to  require  an  apology  from 
some  one,  and  as  no  one  else  seemed  inclined  to 
make  it" — her  eyes,  bright  and  a  little  strained, 
flashed  at  Ainsworth — "I  did.  What  is  the  matter? 
What  does  it  all  mean?" 

"All  what?" 

"Why,  to  express  it  mildly,  Dick  was  treated 
with  extreme  discourtesy !" 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  demanded  Tommy,  rudely. 
"He  's  nothing  but  a  cheap,  pettifogging  lawyer 
who 's  wormed  his  way  into  politics,  and — " 

"Never  mind  that  now,  Tommy,"  his  father  in- 
terposed. "It  is  sufficient  for  Jean  to  know  that 
Leigh  ton  is  not  a  desirable  acquaintance." 

"Why,   Father!"     The  girl's   eyes   widened   in 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  123 

amazement.  She  could  hardly  believe  that  she  had 
heard  aright. 

"And  I  must  request  you  to  show  him  plainly  that 
you  do  not  care  to  associate  with  him." 

For  a  moment  Jean  did  not  speak.  Surprised, 
shocked,  her  first  impulse  was  to  spring  to  Dick's 
defense,  to  insist  on  an  immediate  explanation  of 
an  attitude  that  both  amazed  and  bewildered  her. 
What  was  it  all  about?  What  was  back  of  all  this 
unexpected  and  bitter  antagonism"?  She  said: 

"I  can't  accept  generalities  of  that  sort,  Father. 
Until  I  know — "  She  checked  herself,  and  finished 
quietly:  "But  this  is  hardly  the  time  to  go  into  it, 
I  think." 

But  for  McAllister,  she  would  have  gone  into  it 
thoroughly,  then  and  there;  his  presence  definitely 
forbade  the  opening  of  a  debate  that,  if  it  conformed 
to  precedent,  would  lead  to  acrimonious  dispute. 
And  she  had  thought  that  chapter  closed !  She  was 
beset  with  a  curious  impulse  to  laugh,  not  at  her 
father,  but  at  herself  for  her  eager  optimism  in 
believing  that  in  her  absence  the  leopard  had 
changed  his  spots.  The  brief  vision  that  had  been 
full  of  such  alluring  promise,  faded.  She  saw  her- 
self confronted  with  a  renewal  of  the  old  struggle. 

Was  it  for  this  that  she  had  abandoned  her  work 
in  the  city,  where,  as  she  knew  she  could  admit 
without  egotism,  she  was  of  real  use,  where  her 


124  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

efforts  met  with  every  encouragement,  where  she 
was  an  individual,  with  an  individual's  right  to 
think  and  decide  for  herself? — for  this  cold,  de- 
pressing atmosphere  of  arbitrary  authority?  The 
prospect  left  her  suddenly  weary  and  dispirited. 

"Had  n't  we  better  run  away,  Jean,  dear*?"  Her 
aunt's  hand  touched  her  arm  tenderly.  "These  men 
want  to  talk  business." 

"Why,  yes,  Aunt  Mary."  The  girl  forced  a 
smile.  "I — I  'm  tired,  and  I  think  I  'd  like  a  cup 
of  tea." 


XI 

WITH  the  departure  of  the  ladies,  McAllister's 
mask  of  easy  unconcern  fell.  He  twitched 
a  chair  up  to  the  end  of  the  table  and  sat  down 
heavily. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "it 's  more  than  a  rumor,  Mr. 
Ainsworth.  We  're  not  going  to  have  any  Sunday- 
school  picnic  this  year.  When  you  sent  for  me  the 
other  morning,  I  thought  you  were  a  little  over 
anxious;  but — confound  it! — it  looks  like  a  serious 
matter!  If  Leighton  gets  much  stronger,  we're 
going  to  have  our  hands  full  to  beat  him." 

"We  Ve  underestimated  him  all  along,"  said 
Ainsworth.  "I  never  had  any  feeling  against  him; 
in  fact,  I  did  n't  object  to  his  being  elected  sheriff. 
I  thought  that  possibly  he  might  be  useful  to  us,  and 
I  regarded  him  as  at  least  trustworthy,  until  this 
matter  came  up.  The  audacity  of  him ! — trying  to 
oust  me  from  my  own  ticket !" 

"He  's  got  gall  enough  for  anything,"  Tommy 
said  acidly. 

McAllister  shrugged. 

"Well,  he  wants  to  be  Congressman,  not  an  also- 
ran.  He  knows  as  well  as  we  do  that  there  's  just 

125 


126  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

one  party  in  this  district,  and  his  name  on  our 
ticket  elects  him.  And,  I  tell  you  frankly,  Mr. 
Ainsworth,  I  don't  like  the  outlook.  Leighton's 
vote  for  sheriff  was  practically  unanimous,  and  he  's 
made  good  all  along  the  line.  He  's  kept  order 
downtown,  and  the  funny  part  of  it  is,  the  rough- 
necks seem  to  like  him  for  it.  He  's  stronger  down 
there  than  anywhere  else.  The  Hill  is  pretty  evenly 
divided,  from  what  I  can  make  out.  They  'd  all 
pick  him  for  sheriff  again,  but  that 's  your  Congress 
bailiwick.'* 

"It  ought  to  be  solid  for  us,"  said  Tommy. 

"Well,  it 's  got  to  be.  If  we  could  be  sure  of 
it,  we  need  n't  worry  so  much ;  but  he  '11  cut  into 
the  vote,  take  it  from  me." 

"He 's  a  strong  man,  McAllister,"  Ainsworth 
said  seriously;  "a  very  strongman  indeed." 

"You  'd  think  so  if  you'd  heard  the  crowd  yell- 
ing for  him  down  in  the  Square  to-day,"  Tommy 
threw  in. 

McAllister  nodded. 

"I  did.  Everybody  was  wild  over  him.  They 
wanted  to  pull  him  off  his  horse  and  ride  him 
around  on  their  shoulders;  they  'd  have  done  it  too, 
if  he  'd  let  them.  Shouting  and  cheering  and  howl- 
ing like  a  tribe  of  Comanche  Indians.  This 
damned  Blake  affair  could  n't  have  come  at  a  worse 
time  for  us." 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  127 

Tommy  flung  himself  back  in  his  chair  and  gave 
vent  to  a  snort  of  disgust. 

"Wouldn't  it  make  you  sick  and  tired?  Just 
gives  Leighton  a  chance  to  pull  off  a  grand-stand 
stunt !  That  play  of  his,  going  down  the  flume  and 
snaking  Blake  out — desperate  villian,  armed  to  the 
teeth,  brave  and  handsome  young  hero,  valiantly 
facing  death  from  the  desperado's  revolver — oh, 
great  movie  stuff!  Just  the  kind  of  thing  that'll 
make  a  lot  of  idiots  think  he  's  the  only  thing  that 
ever  happened!"  He  snorted  again,  and  dug  down 
into  his  pocket  for  his  cigarettes. 

"And  just  at  the  time  when  the  whole  affair  would 
ordinarily  be  forgotten,"  said  the  Congressman,  "the 
trial  will  come  up,  and  bring  everything  freshly  to 
the  public  mind  again" — he  paused,  and  finished 
with  stressful  emphasis — "just  before  the  pri- 
maries." 

"I  had  n't  thought  of  that,"  muttered  McAllister, 
blankly.  He  knew  that  he  should  have  thought  of 
it,  along  with  other  disquieting  matters  to  which 
Ainsworth  had  called  his  attention  and  which  he 
had  neglected  on  the  comfortable  hypothesis  that 
Tommy  had  discovered  a  mare's  nest,  in  the  exist- 
ence of  which  he  had  induced  the  Congressman  to 
believe.  McAllister  had  very  little  confidence  in 
Tommy.  He  knew  that  the  boy  was  an  idler,  and 
he  had  suspected  him  of  deliberately  dramatizing 


128  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

the  situation,  merely  for  the  sake  of  enhancing  his 
own  value  as  a  henchman. 

McAllister  himself  had  been  troubled  by  no  mis- 
givings. To  him  the  nomination  and  subsequent 
election  of  David  Ainsworth  as  Congressional  rep- 
resentative had  become  a  mere  matter  of  form, 
a  routine  which  must  of  necessity  be  gone  through 
once  every  two  years.  It  was  part  of  the  estab- 
lished order  of  things,  originally  instituted  by 
Judge  Gordon  Randolph;  no  one  had  ever  inter- 
fered with  it,  and  it  was  ridiculous  to  suppose  that 
any  one  ever  would  interfere,  or  even  think  of  such 
a  thing. 

Only  because  Ainsworth  had  given  him  what 
amounted  to  a  direct  order,  and  with  no  remotest 
idea  that  there  was  any  foundation  whatsoever  for 
it,  had  McAllister  leisurely  started  out  to  investi- 
gate the  rumor  that  an  attempt  would  be  made  to 
substitute  the  name  of  Richard  Leighton  for  that  of 
the  regular  Congressional  nominee. 

What  he  learned  in  a  very  short  space  of  time 
electrified  and  startled  him.  So  far  from  being  an 
easy-running,  well-oiled  machine,  their  organization 
stood  in  need  of  quick  and  intelligent  attention. 
Some  one  had  been  putting  sand  in  the  gears.  Some 
one,  too,  had  been  sowing  the  seeds  of  discontent  in 
soil  paradoxically  made  fertile  by  years  of  neglect. 
Promises  unfulfilled,  pledges  ignored  or  else  for- 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  129 

gotten — words,  words,  words,  when  Randolph 
wanted  and  demanded  deeds  I 

And  the  dissatisfaction  was  not  confined  to  the 
section  south  of  Squatter  Creek,  where,  of  course, 
nobody  was  ever  satisfied  with  anything;  it  had 
spread  to  the  Hill.  Squire  Moore,  whose  opinions 
carried  considerable  weight,  made  no  bones  about 
saying  that  he,  for  one,  was  convinced  that  young 
Leighton  was  the  sort  of  representative  who  would 
be  a  credit  to  the  community  that  sent  him  to 
Congress. 

"Gordon  Randolph  believed  in  him  and  loved 
him  like  a  son,"  the  old  Squire  had  argued  to 
McAllister;  "and  Gordon  Randolph  never  made  a 
mistake  in  a  man  but  once — when  he  backed  Dave 
Ainsworth.  That  was  mostly  on  account  of  Alice 
Nestor,  too;  Gordon  set  a  lot  of  store  by  her.  But 
he  took  Dave's  measure  years  ago,  and  it 's  my  belief 
that  he  picked  Dick  Leighton  to  beat  him,  picked 
and  trained  him  just  for  that.  You  can  tell  Dave 
I  said  so,  if  you  like ;  it 's  all  one  to  me.  I  'm  not 
the  only  one  who  's  going  to  vote  to  suit  himself 
this  fall,  McAllister." 

Which  statement  McAllister  was  constrained  to 
believe  when  he  had  pursued  his  investigation  of 
Tommy's  mare's  nest  a  little  farther.  Ainsworth 
was  a  man  of  words ;  Leighton  was  a  man  of  action. 
The  district  seemed  to  want  action.  The  young 


130  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

sheriff's  spectacular  arrest  of  Blake,  was,  as  Tommy 
said,  exactly  the  sort  of  thing  best  calculated  to 
build  up  his  already  strong  position. 

"It 's  the  very  devil !"  McAllister  burst  out 
angrily.  "The  papers  will  be  full  of  it:  Leigh- 
ton  did  this,  and  Leighton  did  that,  and  Leighton 
did  the  other  thing!  He'll  be  all  over  the  place! 
There 's  no  use  in  our  trying  to  fool  ourselves ; 
there  's  nothing  on  earth  we  can  say  or  do  that  will 
turn  people's  attention  away  from  the  infernal 
business.  I  'd  forgotten  about  the  trial.  Dog-gone 
it!"  He  smashed  his  fist  down  on  the  table. 
"Why  did  n't  the  boys  string  that  fellow  up  when 
they  caught  him?" 

"For  a  Mexican  bean  they  would  have,"  said 
Tommy. 

"Pity  they  don't  do  it  now,  then!  It  would 
save  us  a  whole  lot  of  trouble !" 

"Yes;  it  would  do  more  than  that,"  Ainsworth 
said  slowly.  "It  would  put  Leighton  permanently 
out  of  politics." 

"Whaddyemean — put  him  out  of  politics?" 
Tommy  wanted  to  know. 

"Simply  that  in  every  lynching  there  are  people 
for  and  against  the  sheriff,  no  matter  what  he  does," 
the  Congressman  replied. 

Tommy  turned  in  his  chair  and  regarded  his 
father  curiously;  but  after  puzzling  his  brains  for 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  131 

a  moment  he  shook  his  head  and  leaned  back  with 
a  shrug. 

"Maybe  I'm  dull,"  he  said,  "but  I  don't  see 
what  you  're  driving  at,  Dad.  What 's  that  got 
to  do  with  putting  Leigh  ton  out  of  the  running*?" 

McAllister  took  it  upon  himself  to  explain: 

"Well,  suppose  an  attempt  was  made  to  string 
Blake  up,  and  succeeded.  There  'd  be  a  hue  and 
cry  because  the  sheriff  had  failed  to  protect  his 
prisoner — disgrace  to  the  community,  blot  on  the 
fair  name  of  the  State,  and  so  forth,  ad  libitum,  ad 
infinitum,  ad  nauseam.  On  the  other  hand,  sup- 
pose the  attempt  was  n't  successful." 

"It  would  n't  be,"  said  Tommy,  promptly.  "Dick 
Leighton  may  be  a  lot  of  unpleasant  things,  but 
he  's  no  coward.  He  'd  nip  any  little  play  like  that 
right  off  the  bat,  believe  me." 

Ainsworth's  eyebrows  went  up. 

"You  think  so,  Tommy'?  Just  how  would  he 
do  it?" 

"Yes,  how4?"  chimed  in  McAllister.  "Defying 
a  mob  works  out  beautifully  in  theory;  but  in  prac- 
tice there's  just  one  way  to  stop  a  crowd  of  hood- 
lums het  up  with  whisky  and  excitement,  and  that 
is  to  hurt  some  of  'em,  and  hurt  'em  quick  and  bad. 
At  the  next  election  the  rest  of  'em  would  express 
their  opinion  of  the  man  who  did  it.  That 's  what 
your  father  means,  my  boy." 


132  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

iTommy  nodded. 

"I  see,"  he  said  slowly.  "It  would  be  a  divided 
vote,  anyway." 

"And  that,"  said  Ainsworth,  "is  all  we  need. 
If  in  any  way  the  downtown  vote  could  be  split,  we 
are  sure  of  enough  support  from  the  Hill  to  make 
the  issue  absolutely  certain.  Or,  if  we  could  so- 
lidify the  Hill  vote,  the  result  would  be  a  foregone 
conclusion." 

McAllister  began  to  beat  a  staccato  tattoo  on  the 
table  with  his  thumbs. 

"If  that  crazy  downtown  bunch  would  only  take 
it  into  their  heads  to  lynch  Blake,  it  would  be  a 
great  bit  of  luck  for  us!"  he  said.  "They'd  go 
after  him  for  keeps,  and  the  only  way  Leighton 
could  prevent  it  would  be  to  shoot  some  of  the  very 
crowd  he  's  strongest  with.  He  'd  never  do  that. 
He  knows  which  side  his  bread  is  buttered  on,  I 
guess !  He  'd  make  his  roughneck  friends  a  present 
of  Blake  and  throw  a  bluff  of  determined  resistance 
overcome  by  force  of  numbers,  which  would  do  him 
a  lot  of  good  when  we  got  after  him !" 

"There  will  be  no  attempt,  of  course,"  Ainsworth 
added;  "but  if  there  were,  we  certainly  should  not 
have  to  worry  further  about  Mr.  Leighton.  And 
we  could  make  a  powerful  campaign  slogan  out  of 
the  idea  of  fighting  the  man  who  would  n't  fight  for 
the  honor  of  the  State — eh,. McAllister*?," 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  133 

"Bully!"  the  editor  responded  with  enthusiasm. 
"Corking!  I'd  condense  it — it  could  be  done — 
and  run  it  right  across  the  top  of  the  first  page 
of  'The  Register.'  Magnificent!  Fighting  the 
man  who  would  n't  fight  for  the  honor  of  the 
State!" 

"That's  a  grand  little  idea,"  Tommy  conceded; 
"but  suppose  he  did  fight.  What  then?" 

"The  man  's  not  a  maniac !"  McAllister  retorted 
impatiently.  "I  tell  you,  Tommy,  Dick  Leighton  's 
nobody's  fool.  How  do  you  suppose  he 's  got 
where  he  is  to-day?  By  using  his  head,  that 's 
how !  If  he  had  n't  had  one,  and  a  pretty  shrewd 
one,  too,  on  his  shoulders,  do  you  think  Gordon 
Randolph  would  have  nursed  him  along  into  a 
partnership?  Look  at  the  things  he  's  done,  and 
then  go  back  and  figure  out  how  he  did  'em! 
Friends?  He  's  got  more  friends  right  here  in  this 
town  than  you  or  I,  or  even  your  father !  He  makes 
'em  and  he  keeps  'em,  because  he  knows  they  're 
the  biggest  asset  he  's  got.  There  's  hardly  a  man 
downtown  who  does  n't  swear  by  him." 

"That 's  true,"  Tommy  agreed. 

"Well,  do  you  think  he  'd  risk  losing  everything 
he  's  been  working  for,  kick  over  the  whole  bucket 
of  milk,  just  for  the  skin  of  a  dirty  murderer?  Not 
much !  One  bullet  into  that  crowd,  and  he  could  n't 
get  the  job  of  dog-catcher — if  they  left  him  alive 


134  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

to  try  it !"  He  stopped  for  breath,  glancing  over  at 
Ainsworth,  who  nodded  in  approbation. 

"I  think,  McAllister,"  the  Congressman  said,  in 
his  cold,  incisive  voice,  "that  you  have  put  it  very 
clearly.  To  resist  is  the  one  thing  Leighton  could 
not,  and  would  not,  do.  If  he  killed  any  one  in 
that  crowd,  the  rest  would  make  the  town  too  hot 
to  hold  him.  On  the  other  hand,  if  he  did  not 
shoot,  all  right-thinking  people  would  forever  re- 
pudiate him — 'the  man  who  would  n't  fight  for  the 
honor  of  the  State.'  " 

"Gee!"  Tommy  exclaimed  enthusiastically. 
"What  a  peach  of  a  chance  for  us !  He  'd  be  be- 
tween hell  and  the  iron-works,  would  n't  he !  And 
I  'd  like  to  see  him  squirm  out!" 

McAllister  snapped  his  fingers  impatiently. 

"Well,  let 's  get  down  to  business,"  he  said. 
"All  this  is  very  instructive,  but  it  is  n't  getting  us 
anywhere.  Blake 's  locked  uo  under  guard,  and 
the  excitement  downtown  has  all  died  away.  No- 
body 's  going  to  stir  it  up  again." 

Ainsworth  smiled  slowly. 

"There  's — er — considerable  talk  against  Blake," 
he  remarked. 

"Yes,  talk,"  grunted  McAllister.  "And  that's 
all  there  ever  will  be.  Nobody  '11  do  anything." 

"A  pity,  is  n't  it*?"  said  Ainsworth,  gently.  "No 
one  to  take  the  initiative." 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  135 

"No*?"  Tommy's  quick  glance  went  again  to  his 
father. 

But  the  Congressman  was  not  looking  at  him. 
The  expressionless  blue  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  beam  of 
sunlight  that  slanted  through  the  western  window 
and  lay  like  a  narrow  band  of  gold  across  the 
polished  mahogany  of  the  table  top. 

"No;  I  'm  afraid  not,"  David  Ainsworth  said, 
still  in  the  same  gentle  tone.  He  shook  his  head 
regretfully.  "And  that  Blake  is  a  worthless  wretch. 
A  trial  would  be  nothing  but  a  farce,  anyway ;  there 
is  no  possible  doubt  of  his  guilt."  He  sighed.  "It 
is  most  unfortunate,"  he  said. 

Tommy  pushed  back  his  chair  and  got  to  his 
feet.  His  eyes  had  not  left  his  father's  face.  The 
hand  that  held  the  lighted  match  to  his  cigarette 
was  trembling.  He  crossed  the  room  and  picked  up 
his  hat  from  a  chair  by  the  door. 

"If  you  don't  need  me  for  anything,  I — "  he 
gulped,  swallowed,  and  finally  managed,  almost 
naturally — "I  guess  I  '11  walk  downtown  and  see 
what 's  going  on." 

Suddenly  McAllister's  jaw  dropped;  an  ex- 
pression of  amazed  incredulity  swept  over  his  face. 
He  slumped  down  in  his  chair. 

"My  God!"  he  muttered,  half  in  fear,  half  in 
sheer  admiration. 

With  his  hand  on  the  door-knob,  the  boy  turned. 


136          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

Ainsworth  had  risen.     The  eyes  of  the  two,  father 
and   son,   met   and  held   steadily   for   a  moment. 
Then  the  Congressman  spoke,  abruptly,  decisively. 
"Be  careful,  Tommy,"  he  said. 


XII 

DINNER  was  a  rather  silent  meal.  Miss  Nestor 
strove  valiantly  to  keep  the  conversational  ball 
rolling,  and  Jean  tried  to  do  her  part;  but  Ains- 
worth  had  little  to  say,  and  when  he  did  talk,  it 
was  in  a  jerky,  absent-minded  manner  that  clearly 
showed  his  preoccupation.  Tommy  did  not  put  in 
an  appearance;  but  Ainsworth  made  no  comment  on 
his  defection  and,  as  soon  as  the  sweet  was  brought 
in,  excused  himself  and  vanished  into  his  study  on 
the  second  floor. 

"Let 's  have  our  coffee  served  in  the  library,  shall 
we*?"  suggested  Miss  Nestor.  "I've  had  the  fire 
laid  there.  The  nights  are  still  cool  enough  for  it  to 
be  agreeable." 

Before  the  cheerful  little  blaze,  the  women  talked 
of  a  thousand  and  one  commonplaces ;  they  had  much 
to  tell  each  other  after  their  long  separation.  But 
Jean  could  not  hold  her  attention  to  the  almost 
feverish  chatter  of  the  elder  woman,  who,  knowing 
the  subject  that  was  uppermost  in  her  niece's  mind, 
tried  in  every  possible  way  to  steer  clear  of  it.  To 

137 


138          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

the  girl,  however,  it  was  too  important  to  be  long 
avoided.  She  broached  it  abruptly. 

"Aunt  Mary,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  know  what  is 
the  trouble  between  Father  and  Dick.  They  used 
to  be  perfectly  good  friends.  What  has  happened  *?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Nestor,  honestly,  re- 
signing herself  to  the  inevitable.  "Of  course  there  's 
something;  I  can  see  that.  And  it 's  something 
comparatively  recent,  because  your  father  was  pleas- 
ant enough  to  him  when  we  all  met  at  the  memorial 
service  for  Judge  Randolph.  They  shook  hands, 
and  David  told  Mr.  Leighton  he  wished  him  every 
success,  that  he  liked  to  see  a  young  man  forging 
ahead.  That  was  about  six  weeks  ago,  so  it  must 
have  been  something  that  has  happened  since  then." 

"Do  you  know  of  anything  that  Dick  has  done? 
Have  you  heard  of  anything,  Aunt  Mary*?" 

Miss  Nestor  shook  her  head. 

"Not  a  thing.  He  's  been  getting  on  splendidly 
with  his  law  work.  I  dare  say  you  know  of  that 
big  case  he  had  against  the  railroad.  Every  one  said 
he  had  n't  a  chance,  but  he  won  it  easily,  and  I  un- 
derstand he  received  a  very  large  fee.  Since  then — I 
don't  recall  anything  in  particular ;  at  least,  there  's 
been  no  especial  comment  about  any  one  case.  But 
both  your  father  and  Tommy  seem  to  think  Mr. 
Leighton  has  done  something  dishonorable.  They 
disparage  him  whenever  they  speak  of  him,  call  him 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  139 

a  cheap  shyster,  and  say  he  is  n't  a  fit  associate  for 
you." 

"Did  Father  happen  to  be  interested  on  the  other 
side  of  that  railroad  case  Dick  won*?"  asked  Jean, 
with  thin  irony. 

"Oh,  no !  That  was  some  time  before  the  Judge 
died.  In  fact,  I  believe  David  congratulated  Mr. 
Leighton  on  his  clever  speech  to  the  jury.  No, 
Jean ;  whatever  it  is,  it 's  something  much  more  re- 
cent than  that.  The  first  time  I  noticed  that  there 
was  anything  wrong  was  yesterday  afternoon.  The 
way  David  spoke  surprised  and  troubled  me  very 
much.  I  asked  for  an  explanation,  but" — she  made 
an  expressive  gesture — "well,  you  know  your  father, 
Jean.  He  would  tell  me  nothing." 

"He  will  tell  me,"  Jean  said  quietly.  "I  should 
have  had  it  out  with  him  before  dinner,  if  Mr.  Mc- 
Allister had  n't  been  there.  And  with  Tommy,  too. 
He  behaved  abominably.  By  the  way,  where  is 
Tommy*?  Why  didn't  he  come  home  to  dinner?" 
It  was  a  perfectly  natural  question,  asked  in  a  per- 
fectly natural  way,  but  Miss  Nestor  sensed  the  hurt 
that  lay  behind  it.  Jean  loved  Tommy;  that  the 
boy  should  deliberately  absent  himself  on  the  first 
evening  his  sister  was  in  the  house  both  mortified  and 
distressed  the  little  lady,  who  had  been  so  anxious 
that  Jean's  home-coming  should  prove  everything  to 
be  desired.  She  said  hastily: 


HO          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"Oh,  Tommy  is  just  like  other  boys — and  men,  too, 
for  that  matter.  He  thinks  a  house  runs  itself,  and 
does  n't  realize  how  much  easier  it  makes  things  if 
one  knows  how  many  to  prepare  for.  He  often 
stays  away  for  meals." 

"But  I  don't  often  come  home  after  being  away 
for  nearly  four  years,  Aunt  Mary.  One  would 
think  he  might  have  managed  to  be  disengaged  for 
this  one  evening.  And  my  father,  too.  Are  his 
affairs  so  pressing  that  he  has  to  rush  away  from  the 
dinner-table  and  shut  himself  up  in  his  study,  with 
hardly  a  word  to  me*?" 

Miss  Nestor  looked  on  the  verge  of  tears;  her 
lips  quivered. 

"Oh,  please,  don't  mind  me,  Aunt  Mary,"  Jean 
exclaimed  in  quick  contrition.  "I  'm  horrid.  Only 
— I  was  a  little  hurt,  I  admit.  It  seems  so  unlike 
Tommy.  I  thought  both  he  and  Father  might  have 
been  a  little  more  cordial." 

Miss  Nestor  nodded,  blinking  the  tears  from  her 
eyes. 

"I — I  don't  understand  it,  Jean,"  she  confessed. 
"There  's  some  mystery  here." 

"There  is;  and  I  mean  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  it," 
the  girl  said  grimly.  "But  we  can  't  do  it  now,  so 
there  's  no  use  talking  about  it.  Let 's  find  a  pleas- 
anter  topic.  How  is  Squire  Moore's  wife*?  I  had 
such  a  charming  little  note  from  her  not  long  ago, 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  141 

telling  me  that  she  was  looking  forward  to  my  re- 
turn, and  asking  me  to  come  to  see  her,  as  she  was  n't 
well  enough  to  come  to  see  me." 

But  their  efforts  to  make  conversation  flow  natu- 
rally, were  not  very  successful.  Jean  was  perturbed 
and  uneasy;  as  the  evening  wore  on,  her  restlessness 
increased.  She  could  not  concentrate  her  mind  on 
Randolph's  doings  and  sayings :  her  thoughts  would 
turn  back  to  the  unfortunate  business  of  the  after- 
noon, to  the  inexplicable  behavior  of  her  father  and 
brother,  not  only  toward  Dick,  with  whom  their 
relations  had  hitherto  been  amicable  enough,  but  to- 
ward herself.  She  seemed  unable  to  sit  still.  She 
moved  irresolutely  about  the  room,  picking  up  a 
book  here,  an  ornament  there.  Finally : 

"Aunt  Mary,  would  you  mind  very  much  if  I  went 
for  a  little  walk?"  she  asked.  "I  think  perhaps  the 
exercise  would  make  me  sleep  better." 

"Why,  of  course  not,  child.  Run  along,  if  you 
want  to.  I  dare  say  the  air  will  be  good  for  you. 
But  remember  you  've  had  a  long  trip  to-day,  and 
don't  tire  yourself  too  much." 

"Oh,  I  sha'n't  be  gone  long,"  Jean  promised. 
She  put  on  her  hat,  and  slipped  a  long  cape  over  the 
plain  white  linen  frock  for  which  she  had  exchanged 
her  cloth  traveling-suit. 

It  was  warmer  outdoors  than  in  the  house,  but 
there  was  a  slight  breeze,  laden  with  the  fragrance  of 


142  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

spring  blossoms,  that  swayed  the  boughs  of  the  giant 
elms,  and  stirred  the  heavy  young  foliage  to  a  slur- 
ring rustle.  Jean  lifted  her  face  to  it  gratefully,  as 
she  went  along  at  a  smooth,  unhurried  pace.  It 
seemed  to  rest  her,  to  soothe  her  mind,  beset  by  a 
cloud  of  vague  doubts  and  apprehensions.  The 
ominous  portent,  the  dread  of  she  knew  not  what, 
allowed  itself  to  be  forced  into  the  background. 
Not  banished  altogether.  It  was  there,  hovering 
like  some  baleful  thing,  and  there  it  would  remain 
until  all  the  mystery  and  uncertainty  were  cleared 
up. 

But  to-night  she  would  puzzle  no  more.  She  was 
back  in  Randolph,  in  the  town  in  which  she  had  been 
born.  She  loved  every  inch  of  it — its  crooked,  in- 
dependent streets,  that  seemed  to  have  an  individ- 
uality each  of  its  own;  its  uneven  pavements — she 
remembered  every  depression  and  broken  stone — its 
houses,  its  stores.  There  was  a  new  blouse  shop, 
jaunty  enough  to  light  its  narrow  windows  with 
electric  bulbs  in  tin  reflectors.  The  dolorous  In- 
dian maiden  in  front  of  the  tobacco  and  barber  shop 
had  been  replaced  by  a  gaudy  striped  pole  that  re- 
volved dizzily. 

Jean's  interested  eyes  took  in  the  changes,  great 
and  small.  She  saw  a  number  of  people  she  knew, 
but  she  avoided  speaking  to  them,  a  not  too  difficult 
matter,  since  nearly  every  one  down  street  seemed  to 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  143 

be  attached  to  some  group  or  other  with  an  engross- 
ing topic  of  conversation.  The  Greek's  was  crowded. 
Jean  crossed  the  avenue  and  turned  off  above  the 
market.  She  walked  steadily,  aimlessly,  rounding 
now  this  corner,  now  that,  absorbed  in  her  own 
thoughts. 

Minerva  may  have  sprung,  full-bodied,  from  the 
brow  of  Jove,  but  a  hospital  does  not  similarly  spring 
full-fashioned  from  the  brow  of  a  hill.  There  are 
architects  to  be  consulted,  plans  to  be  conceived, 
drawn  up,  and  approved,  bids  to  be  advertised  for 
and  contracts  let — a  host  of  details,  large  and  small, 
that  no  incantations  or  wand-waving  can  settle  in  a 
moment's  time.  All  this  and  more  before  a  single 
shovelful  of  earth  can  be  taken  from  the  ground  or  a 
single  stone  of  the  foundation  laid. 

And  yet,  to  Jean,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the 
gentle  declivity  known  as  Maple  Hill,  it  seemed  that 
nothing  short  of  wizardry  could  have  brought  into 
being  the  long  white  building  that  rested  on  the  top 
of  the  slope  like  a  splendid  crown  on  the  head  of 
some  crouching  giant.  The  full  moon,  just  rising 
over  the  distant  tree-tops,  thrust  the  mass  out  in 
dark  silhouette,  tipping  the  roofs  and  chimneys  with 
cloudy  silver.  The  thick  Ionic  columns,  ranked  a- 
cross  the  front,  stood  tall  and  whitely  nebulous,  like 
swathed  ghosts  in  the  uncertain,  diffused  radiance. 
From  an  upper  window  a  single  spot  of  orange-red 


144  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

light  glowed,  intensifying  the  impression  of  some 
huge  Clyclopean  monster  brooding  over  the  town. 

For  his  eye  was  growing  mellow, 
Rich  and  ripe  and  red  and  yellow, 
As  was  time,  since  old  Ulysses  made  him  bellow  in  the 

dark! 
Since  Ulysses  bunged  his  eye  up  with  a  pine-torch  in 

the  dark! 

The  fragment  of  verse  drifted  vagrantly  across 
Jean's  mind,  and  brought  a  little  smile  to  her  lips. 

The  hospital,  so  urgently  needed,  the  gift  of  her 
father's  hand,  outstretched  in  generous  aid  to  the 
town.  He  could  give  this  way,  magnificently,  with 
no  thought  of  self,  to  Randolph;  he  was  prodigal  of 
his  money,  of  his  time,  expecting,  asking  no  return 
save  the  good  of  his  fellow  men.  Surely,  he  could 
not  be  hard,  cold,  autocratically  domineering  as  he 
seemed  to  be.  And  yet — 

Were  they  pines  among  the  boulders 
Or  the  hair  upon  his  shoulders?  .  .  . 

With  a  rush,  doubt,  restlessness,  aching  uncer- 
tainty were  upon  her  again. 

"I  can't  wait,"  she  cried  aloud  to  the  shadowy 
bulk  above  her.  "I  've  got  to  know." 

Dick  was  up  there,  somewhere  back  of  that  bale- 
ful red-and-yellow  eye.  She  had  not  meant  to  come 
to  him  to-night;  unconsciously  her  steps  had  taken 
her  to  the  hospital.  Perhaps  the  insistent  desire 
within  her,  the  urge  to  solve  this  mystery  had  di- 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  145 

rected  them  without  her  actual  volition;  but  it  did 
not  matter.  She  was  here  now.  She  would  see  Dick, 
talk  with  him,  ask  him  frankly  the  meaning  of  all 
that  perplexed  and  puzzled  her. 

The  street  was  quite  deserted;  not  a  soul  was  in 
sight.  Below  her  the  town  lay,  dark  and  still ;  still 
with  a  sort  of  uneasy  silence  that  was,  somehow,  dis- 
quieting. She  felt  strangely  oppressed,  a  little  ner- 
vous. 

She  turned  and  walked  quickly  up  the  rough  path 
toward  the  porch,  where  between  the  columns  gaped 
the  wide,  empty  doorway. 


XIII 

IN  the  small  white-walled  room  where  Cass 
Blake  lay  on  a  bed  hastily  carted  over  from  the 
jail,  Doctor  Evans  had  given  the  nurse  minute  direc- 
tions as  to  what  to  do,  and  how  and  when  to  do  it. 
She  said  that  she  understood  perfectly — "Oh,  yes, 
indeed,  Doctor  Evans ;  you  've  made  everything  quite 
plain" — but  the  doctor's  mind  was  not  at  ease.  He 
was  frowning  when  he  finally  stepped  out  into  the 
big  bare  corridor  where  Bill  Murray  was  on  guard. 

At  the  sound  of  the  closing  door  the  deputy 
swung  round  on  the  low  stool  that  was  the  sole 
article  of  furniture  visible. 

"Well,  Doc,"  he  inquired,  "has  he  croaked "?" 

"Not  yet,"  returned  the  doctor.  The  frown 
disappeared,  giving  place  to  a  pleasant  smile,  as 
he  added  cheerfully:  "Oh,  I  guess,  barring  acci- 
dents, we  '11  get  him  into  shape." 

"What's  he  doin'  now?"  Murray  wanted  to 
know. 

"He  's  still  unconscious." 

"Urn." 

"One  shot  went  right  through  him;  the  other  is 
lodged  somewhere  in  the  left  breast,  but  his  heart 

146 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  147 

action  is  pretty  weak,  and  I  have  n't  dared  probe 
for  the  bullet.  I  '11  have  to  build  him  up  a  bit 
first." 

"Urn.  I  would,"  said  Murray,  darkly.  "Say," 
he  demanded  all  at  once,  "what  do  you  bother  with 
the  skunk  for,  anyhow?  Best  thing  to  cure  him 
is  the  limb  of  a  tree  an'  ten  foot  o'  rope.  Why 
don't  you  leave  him  croak?" 

Evans  shook  his  head. 

"The  State  will  attend  to  that,  Bill.  It 's  up  to 
me  to  get  him  well,  if  I  can." 

"Wish  't  was  up  to  me.  /  'd  build  him  up — 
high." 

"I  '11  bet  you  would,"  laughed  the  doctor. 
"You're  crazy  about  him,  aren't  you,  Bill?" 

"Urn!"  grunted  Murray.  "Plumb.  Goin'  to 
have  a  hard  winter,  Doc.  Like  to  know  he  was 
where  he  would  n't  suffer  none  from  the  cold." 

"Well,  you  're  not  the  only  one,"  the  doctor  told 
him. 

Nor  was  he.  For  once  in  its  history  there  was 
no  division  of  public  sentiment  in  Randolph.  In 
dining-room  and  drawing-room  on  the  Hill,  in 
kitchen  and  saloon  bar  on  the  Flats,  there  was  but 
one  topic  and  one  opinion:  the  most  severe  penalty 
of  the  law  was  too  lenient  a  punishment  for  Cass 
Blake.  Family  groups  on  comfortable  screened 
porches,  neighbors  in  adjoining  gardens,  knots  of 


148          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

mill-hands  on  street  corners  and  in  shop  doorways, 
discussed  the  crime  and  excoriated  the  criminal. 
There  had  been  other  crimes  in  Randolph;  there 
had  been  none  like  this.  In  all  the  years  of  his 
life  there,  the  little  doctor  could  not  remember  when 
the  town  had  been  so  shocked  and  outraged. 

"There  's  some  one  comin',"  Murray  said,  lean- 
ing forward  to  peer  toward  the  stone  stairway  just 
beyond  the  double  doors.  "Likely  it 's  Dick  to — 
no,  it  ain't.  It 's  Miss  Jean !" 

"Miss  Ainsworth!"  The  doctor's  face  lighted 
up;  he  went  quickly  forward.  "Well,  this  is  a 
pleasure !  I  knew  you  were  expected,  but  we  've 
had  so  much  excitement  here  to-day  that  I  neglected 
to  inquire  about  your  arrival."  He  beamed  at  her 
over  the  rims  of  his  round  glasses.  "Well,  well! 
And  so  you  thought  you  'd  come  right  over  and 
see  the  new  hospital !  Could  n't  wait  to  make  sure 
Randolph  was  as  up  to  date  as  they  are  in  the  big 
city,  eh?  Well,  it  is!  We've  got  a  mighty  fine 
building  here;  you  can  be  just  as  proud  of  it  as  you 
like."  He  had  always  liked  Jean,  "Alice's  girl," 
but  he  had  never  quite  forgiven  her  mother  for 
accepting  David  Ainsworth  when  she  might  have 
married  Gordon  Randolph.  "Your  father  was 
anxious  to  have  you  consulted  before  any  equip- 
ment was  bought,"  he  said.  "He  has  promised  us 
the  best  of  everything,  and  he  wanted  to  have  your 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  149 

ideas  carried  out.  In  a  short  time  Cresston  will  be 
sending  patients  to  Randolph,  instead  of  the  other 
way  round.  Of  course,  there 's  a  lot  to  be  done 
before  we  can  handle  cases;  this  little  matter  to- 
day is  a  trifle  premature." 

"Oh,  yes;  you  mean  Blake."  Jean  brought  her 
attention  back  to  the  doctor  and  what  he  was  say- 
ing; she  concealed  her  disappointment  at  not  finding 
Dick.  "He 's  pretty  badly  hurt,  is  n't  he,  Doctor?" 

"About  as  badly  as  a  human  can  be — and  live. 
It  was  touch  and  go  for  a  little  while,  but  I  think 
he  '11  pull  through  now,  with  careful  watching. 
I  Ve  got  a  nurse  on  the  job,  and — "  He  stopped, 
as  the  door  behind  him  opened  noisily,  and  a  young 
woman  in  a  stiffly  starched  white  uniform  stumbled 
out.  She  was  pale  to  the  lips. 

"I  can't  stand  it,  Doctor,"  she  said,  in  a  trem- 
bling voice.  "I — I  'm  going  home." 

"What*?"  demanded  Evans.  "You're  going 
home?  Miss  Joyce — " 

"Oh,  I  know,  Doctor.  I  said  I'd  stay,  but  I 
did  n't  realize — oh,  it 's  horrible ! — horrible !"  Her 
chin  was  quivering;  her  fingers  twisted  in  and  out, 
winding  themselves  in  a  corner  of  her  apron. 

"Here,  here,  this  won't  do,  my  dear,"  the  doctor 
said,  advancing  toward  her  in  a  businesslike  manner. 
"You  're  a  little  hysterical,  that 's  all.  You  '11  be 
all  right  in  a  few  minutes.  I  '11  just  give  you — " 


150          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"I — I'm  not!"  she  interrupted  vehemently. 
"I  'm  just — just — "  She  choked  into  a  burst  of 
tears. 

The  doctor  thrust  his  hands  into  his  trousers' 
pockets  and  scowled  belligerently. 

"But  you  can't  leave  the  man  without  a  nurse !" 
he  bristled.  "What 's  the  matter  with  you,  any- 
way"? I  know  Blake  isn't  a  pleasant  object,  but 
he 's  perfectly  harmless.  I  '11  give  you  a  little 
sedative,  and  you  '11  feel  all  right  in  no  time." 

"Of  course  she  will,"  Jean  added  encouragingly. 
Her  training  told  her  at  once  what  was  the  matter; 
it  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  seen  a  bad  case  of 
"nerves"  in  an  inexperienced  nurse.  "I  'm  sure 
Miss  Joyce  won't  leave  you  in  the  lurch,  Doctor 
Evans;  she'll  stay." 

"No,  I  won't!  I — I  can't,"  sobbed  the  nurse, 
hysterically.  "I  'm  going  home." 

"You  '11  have  to  keep  yourself  better  in  hand, 
Miss  Joyce,  if  you  're  ever  going  to  be  entitled  to 
that  uniform  you  're  wearing,"  the  doctor  rebuked 
her  grimly.  "You  've  got  to  learn  that  there  's  a 
whole  lot  more  to  nursing  than  just  looking  pretty 
and  holding  hands  with  a  nice  patient.  Come  now, 
let's  have  no  more  nonsense  about  this!"  Under 
ordinary  circumstances,  he  would  not  have  argued 
about  her  remaining;  indeed,  he  would  not  have 
waited  for  her  to  say  she  was  leaving;  he  would 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  151 

have  packed  her  off  at  the  first  word.  But  there 
was  no  one  else  to  be  had,  and  although  annoyance 
was  fast  giving  way  to  exasperation  he  dared  not 
express  himself  as  he  wanted  to. 

There  were  at  least  half  a  dozen  nurses  in  Ran- 
dolph, properly  trained  and  competent;  but  four  of 
them  were  unavailable,  and,  of  the  two  whom  he 
had  managed  to  reach,  one  was  ill  with  tonsilitis 
and  unable  to  leave  the  house,  and  the  other  had 
refused  point-blank  to  take  the  case.  He  had 
pleaded,  argued,  threatened ;  in  vain. 

"I  don't  care  if  you  never  send  for  me  again  as 
long  as  I  live,"  she  had  told  him  over  the  telephone. 
"Norah  Foster  was  a  friend  of  mine,  and,  ethics  or 
no  ethics,  I  'd  starve  in  the  streets  before  I  'd  lift 
a  finger  to  help  that  filthy  beast."  Then  she  had 
hung  up  the  receiver ;  and  the  little  doctor,  as  a  man 
sympathizing  with  her,  even  while,  as  a  physician, 
he  condemned  her  stand,  had  rung  up  somebody 
else. 

He  had  spent  a  full  hour  at  the  telephone  before 
he  got  into  communication  with  Miss  Joyce,  who 
had  sent  in  -an  application  for  a  place  on  the  nurs- 
ing staff  of  the  hospital  when  it  should  be  opened. 
She  was  not  the  nurse  he  would  have  selected;  she 
had  had  but  little  training,  and  her  inexperience 
showed  in  her  over-confidence  of  her  ability;  but 
the  doctor  had  no  choice. 


152          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

Jean  stepped  forward  and  laid  her  hand  on  the 
weeping  girl's  arm. 

"You  know,  my  dear,"  she  said  kindly,  "if  you 
want  to  be  a  trained  nurse,  you  '11  have  to  forget 
your  personal  prejudices.  A  patient,  any  patient 
at  all,  must  be  'a  case/  as  far  as  you  are  concerned; 
you  've  got  to  look  at  them  all  impersonally."  Her 
fingers  closed  gently  over  the  arm  she  held.  "Now, 
won't  you  sit  down,  and  try  to  remember  only  that 
a  life  is  in  danger,  and  that  you  are  there  to  save 
it?" 

"I  won't !     I  'm  not  going  into  that  room  again !" 

"But  it  is  your  work,  Miss  Joyce !" — with  a  hint 
of  sternness. 

"I  don't  care  if  it  is!"  gasped  the  nurse.  She 
wrenched  her  arm  loose  and  backed  away,  dabbing 
at  her  wet  eyes  with  her  handkerchief.  "I  don't 
care  if  it  is!"  she  repeated,  looking  from  Jean  to 
the  disgusted  doctor  and  back.  "It's  yours  too!" 
she  flared  out  excitedly.  "You're  a  nurse;  why 
don't  you  stay  with  him*?" 

There  was  a  moment's  pause  before  Jean  said, 
very  quietly: 

"Very  well,  Miss  Joyce.  If  you  '11  kindly  let 
me  take  that  apron,  I  will." 

"What*?"  Evans  exclaimed  in  amazement. 

"Yes;  certainly." 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  153 

"But  it 's  not  an  agreeable  task.  Are  you  quite 
sure  you — " 

"It  would  n't  be  the  first  disagreeable  thing  I  Ve 
had  to  do,  Doctor,"  Jean  interrupted  composedly, 
"and  it  probably  won't  be  the  last.  When  I  took 
up  my  profession  I  understood  that  it  was  n't  a 
question  of  my  preference,  but  of  where  I  was 
needed." 

"There  's  a  sane,  professional  point  of  view  for 
you!"  crowed  the  doctor,  clapping  his  hands  to- 
gether. "Take  my  advice  and  think  it  over,  Miss 
Joyce!" 

But  if  the  young  woman  acted  on  the  suggestion, 
it  was  only  during  the  time  it  took  her  to  pull  off 
her  apron  and  toss  it  on  the  floor.  Then,  without 
a  word,  she  marched  out,  her  head  in  the  air. 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Good  riddance!"  said  he.  "Think  you'd  like 
to  have  her  on  the  staff,  Miss  Ains worth?" 

"I  'm  afraid  not,  Doctor.  She  '11  never  make  a 
reliable  nurse.  She  's  too  hysterical." 

"Said  she  were  n't  hysterical,"  observed  Murray, 
picking  up  the  discarded  apron,  to  hand  it  to  Jean. 
"I  once  knowed  a  woman  say  she  were  n't  curious." 

"Just  a  moment,"  the  doctor  interposed,  a  little 
anxiously,  as  Jean  held  out  her  hand  for  the  apron. 
"Don't  you  think  you  'd  better  have  a  look  at  your 


154  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

patient  before  you  definitely  decide  to  stay,  Miss 
Ainsworth?  I  hate  to  practically  force  this  case 
upon  you — "  He  relaxed  with  a  sigh  of  relief  at 
Jean's  quietly  reassuring  smile.  "A  fine  young 
woman,  Bill,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone.  "She  takes 
her  work  seriously.  Maybe  when  she  starts  in  here 
she  can  hammer  some  common  sense  into  these 
dummies  that  call  themselves  nurses.  I  liked  the 
way  she  talked  about  her  duty  to  her  profession." 

"Um,"  grunted  the  deputy.  "Duty 's  a  fine 
thing  to  a  woman,  when  some  one  else  has  to  do  it. 
Don't  holler  afore  you're  out  of  the  woods,  Doc; 
she  ain't  seen  him  yet." 

"That  '11  make  no  difference,"  the  doctor  said 
confidently.  "If  he  were  ten  times  as  bad,  she  'd 
stick  on  the  job.  She  's  a  real  nurse." 

"Um.     Too  bad  t'other  one  went." 

"Too  bad?     What  do  you  mean?" 

Murray  slowly  shifted  one  leg  over  the  other. 

"She  were  n't  no  damn'  good,"  he  said.  "She  'd 
'a'  cured  him — right." 


XIV 

DOCTOR  EVANS  was  not  the  only  physician 
in  Randolph.  There  were  two  others — 
clever,  progressive  young  men,  careful  and  assiduous 
in  the  care  of  their  patients;  but  Mrs.  Moore  said 
she  would  just  as  soon  have  a  cat  doctor  her. 
Though  she  was  never  the  first  by  whom  the  new  are 
tried,  she  was,  if  not  at  the  very  end  of  the  proces- 
sion, at  least  among  the  last  to  lay  the  old  on  the 
back  of  the  shelf.  For  twenty  years  she  had  called 
in  Doctor  Evans  when  she  had  one  of  her  "spells" ; 
she  would  have  gone  to  her  grave  rather  than  permit 
the  Squire  to  summon  somebody  else. 

Jean  Ainsworth  being  installed  as  nurse  to  the 
prisoner  at  the  hospital,  the  doctor  felt  that  with 
a  clear  conscience  he  could  leave  her  in  charge  while 
he  attended  Mrs.  Moore  and  another  patient  who 
had  sent  for  him.  He  went  briskly  off,  promising 
to  return  in  half  an  hour,  or  an  hour  at  most. 
There  being  no  telephone  connection  at  the  hospital, 
he  would,  he  said,  ring  up  Miss  Nestor  from  the 
drug  store,  and  explain  the  situation  that  had 
arisen. 

Jean  removed  her  hat  and  wrap,  donned  the  white 

155 


156          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

apron  discarded  by  Miss  Joyce,  and  looked  into 
Blake's  room  to  assure  herself  that  he  needed  no 
immediate  attention.  There  was  no  change  in  his 
condition;  he  still  lay  in  a  state  of  coma.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  done  until  he  should  regain  con- 
sciousness. The  air  was  warm  in  the  little  room, 
heavy  with  the  odor  of  antiseptics.  Jean  went 
back  into  the  corridor,  leaving  the  door  partly 
ajar  so  that  the  slightest  sound  would  reach  her. 

Bill  Murray,  yawning  over  his  pipe,  glanced  up 
with  a  non-committal  nod  when  she  appeared. 

"Surprise  for  Dick,  findin'  you  here,"  he  said. 
"Ought  to  be  along  pretty  quick  now.  Great  feller, 
Dick." 

Jean  was  no  less  pleased  at  one  bit  of  information 
than  at  the  other.  Woman-like,  she  wanted  every 
one  to  think  well  of  the  man  she  loved;  and  there 
had  been  real  feeling  in  the  deputy's  comment. 

"You  like  him,  then?'  she  asked. 

"Some !"  Murray  returned  emphatically.  "Don't 
you?" 

"Why,  why — yes,  of  course,"  she  stammered,  a 
little  confused  by  the  blunt  directness  of  the  ques- 
tion. 

"Most  of  'em  do." 

"Most  what?" 

"Most  women." 

"Oh !"  she  murmured  blankly. 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  157 

"But  he  ain't  got  no  use  for  'em.  He 's  all  busi- 
ness. Just  tends  to  his  knittin'  and  lets  'em  play 
by  their  lones.  Is  he" — jerking  his  thumb  over  his 
shoulder — "built  up  any*?" 

"Built  up*?"  Jean  repeated,  in  mystification. 

"I  mean,  is  he  cured  yet4?" 

"He  's  still  unconscious." 

"Urn.     No  luck." 

* 

"You  were  speaking  of  Dick,"  Jean  reminded 
him. 

"Um.  Dick.  Ain't  a  smarter  feller  in  town. 
Got  to  get  to  the  hen-roost  mighty  early  to  beat  him 
to  it." 

"Yes?" 

"Betcher !  He 's  honest,  but  he  ain't  foolish. 
An'  if  he  sees  anything  he  wants,  he  goes  after  it. 
If  it 's  nailed  down,  he  takes  it  anyhow,  an'  the 
nail  holes  don't  show.  Great  feller!" 

The  deputy  was  waxing  eloquent.  His  admira- 
tion for  Dick  Leighton  was  sincere  and  genuine;  in 
all  Randolph,  the  young  sheriff  had  no  more  stanch 
supporter  than  Bill  Murray,  who  never  lost  an 
opportunity  to  sow  a  few  seeds  where  in  his  opinion 
they  would  do  the  most  good.  He  had  quickly 
divined  Jean's  interest  in  Dick.  He  had  long  been 
aware  of  Dick's  own  state  of  mind;  and  in  praising 
the  young  man,  after  his  fashion,  he  conceived  that 
he  was  by  way  of  assisting  in  a  worthy  cause.  He 


158  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

went  on  enthusiastically,  oblivious  of  the  little 
pucker  that  had  appeared  in  Jean's  forehead: 

"O'  course,  some  is  suspicious  of  him;  but  that 's 
because  he  knows  a  lot  more  'n  they  do.  'Nough  to 
make  a  feller  suspicious,  that  is.  And  smart! 
Anybody  that  tries  to  knife  Dick  in  the  back  wants 
to  look  up  his  sleeve  first.  He  believes  in  doin' 
afore  he  's  done." 

"You  mean  he  fights  the  devil  with  fire?" 

"Urn,"  nodded  Murray.  "Hot  fire,  too.  Just 
a  leetle  hotter  'n  the  other  feller's ;  not  hot  enough 
to  burn  his  fingers." 

"I  see,"  said  Jean,  slowly.  She  turned  and 
walked  back  into  Blake's  room.  She  did  see,  rather 
too  clearly.  There  iras  something,  then,  there  must 
be  something.  A  miserable  sense  of  depression 
came  over  her. 

She  heard  quick  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and  a 
cheery : 

"Hello,  Bill!     Where's  the  doc?" 

"Gone  out" — in  Murray's  laconic  tones.  "Squire 
Moore's  wife  got  a  mis'ry." 

"You  're  all  alone?"  ' 

"Me  an'  the  nurse.  She  's  in  there,  buildin'  him 
up.  But  he  ain't  cured  yet." 

Despite  herself  Jean  smiled  as  she  stepped  out 
into  the  corridor. 

"Jean!"  Dick  exclaimed.     "Well,  for  Heaven's 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  159 

sake,  what  are  you  doing  here?  Surely  you  're  not 
the  nurse*?" 

She  nodded. 

"Doctor  Evans  couldn't  get  any  one  else,  so  I 
said  I  'd  help  him  out." 

"Why,  Jean,  you  oughtn't  to  have  done  that!" 

"What  I  said!"  contributed  Murray,  trium- 
phantly. "Oughter  kept  t'other  one." 

"Why  should  you  be  mixed  up  with  a  case  like 
this?"  Dick  protested.  "And  after  an  all-day  trip 
— why,  Evans  must  be  crazy  to  expect  you  to  work ! 
And  this  sort  of  thing — " 

She  interrupted  him. 

"What  do  you  suppose  I  've  been  doing  in  New 
York — attending  garden  parties'?  I  'm  not  tired, 
and  Doctor  Evans  didn't  send  for  me,  either.  I 
went  out  for  a  walk  and  came  up  here.  The  nurse 
was  just  leaving,  and  I  offered  to  take  her  place. 
Now  you  know  all  about  it." 

"But  what  did  they  say  at  home?"  he  persisted. 

"Nothing.  They  don't  know  it  yet.  Doctor 
Evans  is  going  to  telephone  the  house  so  they  won't 
worry.  Father  was  busy  when  I  left,  and  Tommy 
did  n't  get  home  for  dinner.  Aunt  Mary  and  I 
talked  for  a  little  while,  but  I  wanted  to  get  out 
and  see  what  the  town  looked  like,  and — " 

"And  the  hospital?"  he  asked,  with  twinkling 
eyes. 


160          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"Exactly.     And  here  I  am." 

"Yes;  here  you  are!"  he  echoed,  smiling  down  at 
her. 

"So  'm  I,"  remarked  the  deputy,  dolefully.  "An' 
I  ain't  had  no  dinner  nor  supper,  neither." 

"Oh,  that's  a  shame!"  the  girl  exclaimed. 
"Can't  he  go  out  and  get  something  to  eat,  Dick*?" 

"Why,  of  course  he  can.  I  came  over  to  relieve 
him.  You  go  right  along,  Bill;  and  take  your 
time." 

The  deputy  got  up  from  the  stool  and  edged 
toward  the  door. 

"Kinder  hate  -to  leave  you,"  he  said  with  assumed 
reluctance.  "But  I  got  to  eat,  I  s'pose."  He 
looked  from  one  to  the  other,  slyly  benign. 
"You  '11  see  Dick  ain't  lonely,  ma'am,  won't  you4?" 
he  begged  Jean.  "An'  take  good  care  o'  him  in 
there.  Don't  let  nothin'  happen  to  him.  Whole 
lot  o'  people  'd  be  awful  upset  if  he  was  n't  cured 
proper — the  low-down  cuss !" 

"Is  n't  he  a  joy,  Dick*?"  Jean  laughed,  when  he 
had  clattered  down  the  stairs.  "That  funny  way 
he  has  of  clipping  his  sentences.  And  no  matter 
what  he  says,  he  never  smiles." 

"He  's  the  finest  fellow  in  the  world,"  Dick  said 
warmly,  "and  one  of  the  best  friends  I  've  got.  I  'd 
bank  on  Bill  Murray  any  time;  and  so  would  any 
one  who  really  knows  him.  The  boys  downtown 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  161 

follow  him  like  sheep ;  and  he  's  a  bad  man  in  a 
scrap.  That 's  why  I  swore  him  in  as  deputy : 
when  there  's  any  trouble  I  want  him  on  my  side. 
But  never  mind  about  Bill  now.  I  want  to  talk 
about  you.  It  seems  ages  since  I  saw  you  in  New 
York." 

"Why,  it  was  only  a  little  over  three  months  ago, 
really  a  very  short  time,"  she  said  demurely.  It 
had  not  seemed  a  short  time  to  her,  but  Jean,  for 
all  her  frankness  and  honesty,  was  very  feminine 
indeed. 

"Only  a  little  over  three  months!"  he  echoed. 
"A  quarter  of  a  year,  and  more.  Maybe  you  'd 
think  it  a  long  while  if  you  'd  been  in  this  town 
all  alone." 

"Alone1?     But  you  weren't  alone,  Dick!" 

"There  was  n't  a  soul  in  Randolph — with  you  in 
New  York,"  he  declared  solemnly.  "Jean,  dear — " 

"It's  really  awfully  good  to  be  here!"  she  in- 
terrupted hastily.  "After  all — I  know  it  sounds 
trite,  but  it 's  true — there  is  no  place  like  home,  and 
no  folks  like  home  folks." 

"You  're  right,"  he  said,  accepting  the  diversion 
philosophically.  "I  've  always  felt  that  way  about 
it.  Most  of  the  fellows  in  Randolph  want  to  go 
to  the  city  just  as  soon  as  they  grow  up;  but  I  've 
always  thought  that  there  were  plenty  of  chances 
right  here.  Of  course,  one  has  to  hustle." 


162  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"You  seem  to  have  hustled  to  some  purpose," 
Jean  said.  "That  last  letter  Judge  Randolph  wrote 
me,  just  a  little  while  before  he  died,  was  full  of 
you  and  what  you  had  done.  Oh,  he  was  so  proud 
of  you,  Dick!  And  every  one  speaks  of  how  suc- 
cessful you  've  been." 

Dick  shrugged. 

"Every  one*?  I  'm  afraid  there  are  some  who 
don't  love  me  for  my  success,  if  you  choose  to  dig- 
nify it  by  that  name." 

Jean's  face  clouded  again.     She  said  seriously: 

"I  suspect  that 's  true,  Dick,  and  it  troubles  me. 
There — there 's  something  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
about.  You  may  think  I  've  chosen  a  strange  time 
— our  first  talk  together,  and  the  beginning  of 
that — but  it  worries  me,  Dick,  and  I  want  it  cleared 
up,  at  once." 

"Why,  my  dear  girl,  anything  that  troubles  you 
must  be  cleared  up — and  it  shall  be!  Wait  until 
I  get  something  to  sit  on,  and  then  you  shall  tell 
me  what  it  is."  He  drew  up  Murray's  stool  for  her, 
and  fetched  an  empty  hardware  box  for  himself. 
"Now,then,"  he  said,  "fire  away!"  His  smile  was 
so  frank  and  open,  the  eyes  that  met  hers  squarely 
were  so  clear  and  honest  and  candid,  that  her  heart 
smote  her  for  allowing  herself  to  entertain  even  the 
smallest  doubt  of  him. 


XV 

IT  was  difficult  to  begin,  harder  even  than  she 
had  expected,  to  bring  up  against  him  what 
amounted  to  a  tacit  accusation.  But  Jean  Ains- 
worth  had  inherited  nothing  of  her  father's  subtlety 
and  diplomatic  evasiveness.  Straightforward,  di- 
rect, she  struck  without  preamble,  straight  at  the 
root  of  the  matter. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me,  Dick,  why  my  father  and 
Tommy  acted  toward  you  as  they  did  this  after- 
noon," she  said.  "I  could  n't  ask  them  about  it  at 
the  time  because  Mr.  McAllister  was  there  and  I 
preferred  not  to  discuss  personal  affairs  before  him. 
There  was  very  little  said  after  you  'd  gone,  but  it 
was  evident  that  both  of  them  are  under  the  im- 
pression that  some  of  the  things  you  've  done  are  n't 
just  exactly — well,  honorable.  Of  course,  I  know 
they  're  wrong,  but  how  did  they  get  the  idea?" 

"They  don't  like  me,"  returned  Dick,  promptly. 
"The  fact  is,  our  relations  aren't  very  friendly  just 
now.  You  see — " 

"No,  that  is  n't  it.  Because  Tommy  and  Father 
are  n't  the  only  ones.  Before  you  came  in  I  was 

163 


164          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

talking  to  Mr.  Murray,  and  you  say  he  is  one  of 
the  best  friends  you  have." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"Oh,  he  was  perfectly  loyal  to  you!"  Jean  said 
quickly.  "Indeed,  he  thought  he  was  praising  you. 
He  was  speaking  about  your  success,  and  how  much 
he  thought  of  you — but  there  was  the  same  im- 
plication, Dick." 

"That  I  'd  done  something  dishonorable?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  not  exactly  that;  and  yet — in  a  way,  it 
is.  It 's  a  question  of  your  methods,  Dick,  as  if 
they  were  n't  quite  what  they  ought  to  be;  as  if  you 
were  inclined  to  sharp  practice.  /  know  it 's  all  a 
mistake;  but — is  there  anything  you  could  have 
done  to  give  any  foundation  for  it,  Dick*?" 

The  young  man  rose  from  the  box,  and  stood  with 
knitted  brows,  his  hands  thrust  into  his  trousers' 
pockets.  Finally : 

"Jean,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  I  've  always  run  pretty 
straight,"  he  said.  "You  know,  I  was  raised  in  a 
hard  school,  where  the  motto  was  'Every  man  for 
himself,  and  the  devil  take  the  hindmost.'  Some- 
times a  lot  of  us  would  want  the  same  thing,  and 
we  'd  all  go  after  it,  hard.  When  some  one  got 
hurt  on  the  way,  it  wasn't  our  fault;  it  was  his 
misfortune.  We  all  took  conditions  as  we  found 
them,  and  used  the  weapons  at  hand.  Maybe  the 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  165 

ones  who  got  hurt  would  say  the  weapons  were  n't 
the  right  kind;  but  when  you're  in  the  midst  of 
a  real  fight  you  can't  stop  to  pick  and  choose :  you  're 
too  busy." 

"Do  you   think   they   were   the   right  kind  of 
weapons,  Dick*?"  she  asked  gravely. 

"They  were  the  same  as  the  others  used." 
It  was  not  a  very  strong  argument.  It  savored 
too  much  of  that  specious  excuse  that  has  been 
called  the  first  law  of  nature,  and  used  as  a  defense 
for  ruthlessness  ever  since  the  world  began.  But 
Jean  understood  its  significance.  While  she  pos- 
sessed little  intimate  knowledge  of  the  "school" 
in  which  Dick  Leighton  Jiad  received1  his  early 
training,  she  knew  Randolph  conditions  and  Ran- 
dolph methods.  They  were,  perhaps,  no  worse 
than  and  no  different  from  those  to  be  found  in  the 
average  small  manufacturing  town;  they  were  the 
outgrowth  of  a  system  wrong  in  its  inception  and 
pernicious  in  many  of  its  results.  And  all  her  life 
Jean  had  known  Gordon  Randolph.  Upright  and 
honorable  himself,  his  personal  example  and  its  in- 
fluence over  Dick,  when  the  boy's  mind  was  at  its 
most  malleable  stage,  could  have  been  for  nothing 
but  good.  But  what  of  the  appeal  of  the  cynical 
philosophy  he  preached  without  practising*?  Could 
any  one  be  intimately  associated  with  him,  and  not 
be  swayed  from  black  to  white  until  a  clear  per- 


166  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

ception  of  either  became  impossible  and  both  ap- 
peared to  be  gray1? 

Jean  was  barely  twenty-four  years  old;  her  own 
philosophy  of  life  was  as  untried  as  it  was  uncom- 
promising; and,  as  earnestly  expounded  by  her,  was 
likely  to  sound  narrow  and  priggish;  but  she  clung 
passionately  to  the  standards  she  had  set  up  as  the 
proper  ones.  That  Dick  might  have  fallen  short  of 
them  disquieted  her  only  because  of  the  past.  Of 
the  future  she  had  no  fear.  He  had  made  no 
deliberate  choice  between  right  and  wrong;  he  was 
simply  blind  to  the  line  of  demarcation  that  to  her 
seemed  sharp  and  clear.  He  had  followed  the  trail 
that  other  men  had  blazed ;  the  way  was  not  of  his 
own  making. 

"I  think  I  understand,  Dick,"  she  said  slowly. 
"But  you  are  n't  like  'the  others'  that  you  speak 
of;  you  're  different.  I  know  it,  and  I  want  every 
one  to  know  it,  too.  To  me  you  're  too  fine,  too 
worth  while  to  give  any  one  the  slightest  ground  to 
condemn  you." 

Dick  laughed  shortly. 

"My  dear  girl,"  he  said,  "even  if  I  were  half 
as  good  as  you  're  sweet  enough  to  imagine,  that 
would  be  a  large  order.  'Ground  to  condemn,' 
usually  depends  on  whether  or  not  you  're  in  the 
other  fellow's  way.  I  think  I  've  played  pretty 
square.  But  I  don't  mind  admitting,"  he  added 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  167 

candidly,  "that  sometimes  I  've  been  so  busy  watch- 
ing the  goal  ahead  that  I  have  n't  paid  as  much  at- 
tention as  I  might  to  the  path  that  led  to  it." 
There  came  to  him  a  mental  picture  of  a  high 
Colonial  bed,  with  a  white-haired  old  man  propped 
up  among  lavender-scented  pillows.  "It  was,"  he 
said,  "what  Judge  Randolph  used  to  call  being 
'clever.'  " 

"And  it 's  what  I  don't  want  you  to  do,  Dick," 
Jean  said  bluntly.  "We  've  been  friends  for  so 
many  years  that  I  feel  I  may  speak  plainly  without 
the  risk  of  giving  offense.  All  my  life  I  've  thought 
of  you  as  one  who  would  n't  even  dream  of  con- 
sidering a  compromise  with  his  conscience ;  one  who, 
when  he  was  confronted  with  an  issue,  would  face 
and  meet  it  squarely.  I  've  never  doubted  you, 
Dick,  even  in  the  smallest  thing.  I  've  been  proud 
of  you,  proud  because  you  were  my  friend.  And, 
Dick,  I  think  there  are  a  great  many  other  people 
who  believe  in  you  just  as  I  do.  Only  a  few,  a 
very  few,  have  been  misled  by  these  'clever'  things 
you  've  done.  I  want  you  to  set  them  right  for 
the  future,  to  let  them  see  you  as  the  man  I  know 
you  really  are.  Will  you  do  it,  Dick?" 

He  had  stopped  beside  her,  looking  down  into  the 
earnest  young  eyes  that  were  for  him  the  eyes  of 
the  world. 


168          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"Oh,  Jean,  dear,  I  could  be  anything,  do  any- 
thing, for  you !"  he  said.  He  moved  closer  to  her, 
and  there  was  that  in  his  voice  that  called  a  slow, 
soft  flush  to  her  cheeks.  "You  know  what 's  been 
in  my  heart  all  these  years,  wfaat  I  've  longed  to 
say  to  you.  There  has  never  been  any  one  but  you 
in  my  life;  I  've  never  had  a  single  thought  except 
for  you.  It 's  what  I  've  been  working  for,  hoping 
for,  planning  for — the  day  I  could  go  to*  you  and 
tell  you  that  I  loved  you.  I  've  been  proud  of  your 
friendship ;  but  friendship  is  n't  what  I  want,  not 
from  you,  Jean.  I  want  your  love — and  you. 
Tell  me,  do  you  think  you  could  care  enough  for  me 
to  marry  me*?" 

She  lifted  shy,  glad  eyes  to  his. 

"Yes,  Dick,"  she  said  simply.  And  then  she 
was  in  his  arms,  and  he  was  holding  her  as  if  he 
would  never  let  her  go. 

It  was  not  as  either  of  them  had  thought  it  would 
be.  At  the  back  of  the  Ainsworth  garden  was  a 
little  vine-clad  arbor,  where  as  children  they  had 
played  at  keeping  house,  where  in  the  first  flush  of 
adolescence  they  had  mutually  confided  their  hopes 
and  ambitions,  and  discussed  the  weighty  problems 
the  future  presents  to  seventeen.  It  was  there  that 
Dick  had  sometimes  day-dreamed  of  telling  Jean 
of  his  love  for  her;  there,  too,  that  she  had  visioned 
the  scene  that  should  mark  the  fruition  of  all  her 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  169 

girlish  hopes.  They  were  to  have  sat  side  by  side 
on  the  circular  rustic  bench,  with  the  perfume  of 
roses  and  honeysuckle  filling  the  air  about  them, 
and  the  moonlight  filtering  in  through  the  leaves 
to  dapple  shadows  on  the  earthen  floor. 

But  if  one  has  the  time  and  the  loved  one,  it 
seems  that  the  place  does  not  so  much  matter.  To 
Jean  and  Dick  the  bare,  white-walled  corridor  of 
the  hospital  was  transformed  into  an  enchanted 
garden,  where  in  a  miracle  of  silvered  moonlight 
cherished  dreams  came  true. 

In  all  the  passion  of  his  love  for  her  there  was 
so  much  of  tenderness,  so  much  of  reverence,  fos- 
tered, perhaps,  by  those  years  in  which  it  had  seemed 
to  him  almost  impossible  that  he  should  ever  win 
her.  Even  now,  with  her  in  his  arms,  her  heart 
beating  close  to  his  heart,  he  could  hardly  believe 
that  she  was  his. 

"When  did  you  know?"  he  whispered,  his  lips 
against  her  hair. 

"I  don't  quite  remember,"  she  whispered  back. 
"You  see,  it  was  so  very  long  ago;  I  think  perhaps 
it  may  have  been  that  day  you  kissed  me  in  the 
arbor — do  you  remember*?  And  ever  since  then 
I  've  been  waiting  for  you." 

He  did  remember.  Never  since  had  he  kissed 
her — until  now.  Yet  it  seemed  to  him,  oddly,  that 
all  the  years  between  had  been  wiped  from  the  slate 


170  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

of  Time,  and  that  those  moments  in  the  arbor  were 
of  the  present,  and  not  of  the  past. 

"Oh,  Jean,  Jean!"  he  said,  very  low,  and  caught 
her  to  him  again. 

"You  were  such  a  funny  little  boy,  Dick,"  she 
told  him.  "Do  you  remember  the  night  you  as- 
sured me  that  the  moon  was  made  of  solid  silver, 
and  that  you  were  going  to  climb  the  cherry-tree 
and  knock  it  out  of  the  sky  for  me  with  a  clothes- 
pole  when  you  grew  up?  You  were  so  sure  you 
could  do  it  that  you  made  me  believe  it,  too,  and 
I  was  awfully  pleased,  because  I  liked  that  moon !" 
She  pointed  out  the  window  where,  above  the  dis- 
tant hills,  the  great  luminous  sphere  swung  high  in 
a  pale  sky,  serene  with  stars.  "I  wonder,"  she  said, 
"how  many  other  solemn  little  boys  have  meant  to 
knock  down  the  moon  with  a  clothes-pole !" 

"It  wasn't  a- clothes-pole,"  he  contradicted;  "it 
was  a  fishing-pole.  And  the  name  of  the  solemn 
little  fool  is  legion.  But  I  meant  to  get  the  moon 
for  you,  Jean,  because  you  wanted  it;  I  meant  to 
get  anything  and  everything  that  you  wanted,  so 
that  I  could  give  it  to  you." 

"If  that  was  your  ambition,  you  've  succeeded  in 
it,  Dick,"  she  said  softly. 

He  turned  upward  the  paim  of  first  one  of  her 
hands  and  then  the  other,  kissing  each  in  turn. 

"Dear!"   he  said.     "But   I  haven't   succeeded, 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  171 

quite.  My  love  for  you  is  the  very  best  there  is 
in  me,  but  it  is  n't  good  enough.  I  'm  going  to  try 
to  make  it  so.  The  things  you  don't  approve  of 
are  in  the  past.  I  'm  going  to  make  the  future 
different,  if  I  can;  everything  straightforward,  open 
and  aboveboard;  no  more  dodging  the  issue,  what- 
ever it  is." 

"I  don't  believe  you  ever  did  dodge  or  evade, 
actually,  Dick.  The  real  you  did  n't,  anyway.  It 
was  only  when  there  was  wrong  on  both  sides,  or 
the  outcome  worked  no  downright  harm  to  any  one, 
that  you  were  'clever.'  Don't  tell  me  I  'm  not 
right  about  you,  Dick;  I  know  I  am." 


XVI 

IT  was  wonderful,  that  trust  of  hers  in  him; 
wonderful.  With  a  feeling  akin  to  awe  he 
told  himself  that  come  what  might  he  would  strive 
to  be  worthy  of  it,  and  of  her. 

"I  Ve  been  looking  forward  so  to  coming  home," 
Jean  said,  leaning  her  head  back  against  his  broad 
shoulder  as  they  stood  together  at  the  window. 
"  'Home'  meant  seeing  you.  Those  New  York  trips 
of  yours  were  always  so  brief,  so  soon  over.  It 
seemed  that  I  'd  hardly  time  to  say  a  dozen  words  to 
you  before  you  had  vanished,  and  then  there  would 
be  months  and  months  before  I  saw  you  again !  But 
now — " 

"But  now,"  he  caught  up  her  unfinished  sentence, 
"neither  of  us  is  ever  going  away  anywhere  without 
the  other !  You  ran  away  from  me  once,  Jean,  left 
me  here  all  alone.  Now  that  I  have  you  again,  I  'm 
going  to  hold  you — so — and  never  let  you  go.  My 
Jean — mine !" 

She  swayed  to  him ;  her  arms  went  up  and  around 
his  neck. 

And  then,  across  the  silvered  silence  there  struck  a 
low,  quivering  moan,  a  sound  that  made  Jean  draw 

172 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  173 

back  and  catch  her  breath  with  something  like  a 
shudder.  The  radiance  in  her  face  dimmed  into 
troubled  gravity.  With  swift,  silent  steps  she 
crossed  the  corridor  and  went  into  Blake's  room. 
Dick  would  have  followed,  but  she  shook  her  head, 
waving  him  back.  He  sat  down  on  the  stool  out- 
side the  door  and  waited  for  her  to  reappear.  She 
was  absent  but  a  moment. 

"Is  he  conscious  yet?"  Dick  asked,  his  face  as 
grave  as  her  own. 

"Not  yet;  he  has  n't  stirred.  But  I  think  it  won't 
be  long  before  he  is." 

"Anything  I  can  do?" 

"No.  Doctor  Evans  should  be  here  any  moment 
now.  He  said  he  would  n't  be  gone  more  than  an 
hour,  probably  not  so  long." 

Dick  surrendered  the  stool  to  her,  and  pushed  for- 
ward the  hardware  box  for  himself;  but  he  did  not 
sit  down.  He  said  seriously: 

"Jean,  before  Evans  gets  back,  there 's  something 
I  want  to  talk  over  with  you.  You  know,  your 
father  is  n't  going  to  be  pleased." 

She  smiled  at  him  with  the  proud  tenderness  of  the 
woman  to  whom  doubt  has  ceased  to  exist. 

"That 's  only  because  he  's  gotten  a  wrong  impres- 
sion of  you,  Dick;  he  doesn't  understand.  Father 
is  over-quick  to  judge  sometimes,  I  'm  afraid,  and 
after  he  's  made  up  his  mind  it 's  not  easy  to  get 


174  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

him  to  change  it.  But  he  has  always  liked  you  and 
spoken  well  of  you.  When  he  finds  out  he  's  been 
acting  on  a  mistaken  hypothesis,  I  'm  sure  he  '11  be 
glad.  He  just  does  n't  understand  now." 

But  Dick  shook  his  head. 

"No,  it 's  something  more  than  just  a  personal  pre- 
judice. I  dare  say  that  in  his  place  I  might  have 
something  of  the  same  feeling,  though  I  'm  not  sure; 
he  and  I  don't  look  at  things  from  the  same  angle. 
However,  there  it  is.  There  has  been  a  development 
during  the  past  two  months  that  I  've  been  wanting 
to  consult  you  about.  I  could  n't  very  well  write  of 
it ;  it 's  too  long  a  story,  and  I  thought  we  ought  to 
thresh  it  out  together,  pro  and  con.  It 's  nothing 
that  can  be  decided  just  off-hand;  it  has  too  impor- 
tant a  bearing  on  our  future,  yours  and  mine.  You 
see — "  He  broke  off,  listening  intently. 

From  the  lower  floor  there  came  the  sound  of  hur- 
rying feet;  they  were  running  along  the  hall  and  up 
the  stairs.  In  another  instant  Doctor  Evans  burst 
into  view,  breathless  and  panting.  At  sight  of  Dick, 
he  flung  up  his  arms. 

"Leighton!"  he  shouted,  "they're  going  to  lynch 
Blake!" 

"What?     How  do  you  know?" 

"Bud  McFee  told  me.  I  was  just  coming  up  the 
steps — " 

"What  did  he  say?' 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  175 

"He  said :  'Tell  Dick  to  be  careful.  The  boys 
are  coming  right  up  to  get  Blake.' '  The  little  doc- 
tor wiped  the  beads  of  perspiration  from  his  fore- 
head. "What  are  we  going  to  do*?" 

"We  've  got  to  get  Blake  out  of  here!" 

"But  we  can't  move  him,  Leigh  ton,"  Evans  pro- 
tested. 

"If  we  don't  the  boys  will — and  mighty  quick! 
Go  get  a  car  or  a  wagon — run !" 

"It  will  kill  him,  I  tell  you!  The  least  thing  is 
liable  to—" 

Dick  interrupted  him  sharply : 

"We'll  have  to  risk  that.  Come,  come!  you're 
wasting  time !  Get  a  wagon  and  somebody  to  help 
us.  Hurry!" 

With  dark,  dilated  eyes,  Jean  watched  the  doc- 
tor scurry  off  down  the  stairs. 

"Dick,"  she  said,  "the  man  can't  be  moved.  If 
you  try  to  lift  him,  the  hemorrhage  will  start  again. 
You  can't  carry  him  down  those  stairs." 

"We  're  not  going  to  try,"  Dick  told  her  curtly. 
"Evans  won't  get  back  in  time,  anyhow." 

"Then  why,"  she  cried  wonderingly,  "did  you 
send  the  doctor  off?" 

He  glanced  at  her  quickly,  abstractedly. 

"I  did  n't  want  him  around.  And  you  must  go, 
too,  Jean.  I  '11  have  to  handle  this  thing  alone." 

"No,"  said  Jean;  "I'll  stay." 


176  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"You  can't!" 

"Do  you  think  I  'd  leave  you  here  alone  to  face 
this?"  She  was  pale,  trembling  a  little  with  fear 
and  excitement;  but  she  gave  no  sign  of  shrinking. 
"Well,  I  won't.  I  'm  going  to  stay." 

He  went  to  her  and  caught  her  by  the  shoulder. 

"Jean,  Jean,  I  beg  of  you!  You  don't  realize — 
yo  must  n't  see  a  thing  like  this !  For  my  sake — " 

"I  'm  not  afraid,  Dick;  and  I  'm  going  to  stay!" 
She  spoke  with  a  finality  that  admitted  of  no  further 
argument.  "Now,  what 's  to  be  done?" 

"Done?  There 's  nothing  to  be  done."  His 
hand  dropped  from  her  shoulder,  as  his  thoughts 
swung  back  into  the  whirlpool  where  the  doctor's 
first  shout  had  swept  them.  As  clearly  as  if  he  had 
sat  in  the  Ainsworth  library  a  few  hours  before  and 
listened  to  Samuel  McAllister's  lucid  exposition  of 
what  would  happen  in  the  event  of  an  attempted 
lynching,  he  realized  what  he  had  to  face. 

"But  you  can  stop  them,  can't  you,  Dick?" 

"How?  I  '11  hardly  be  able  to  make  a  show  of 
resistance !  That 's  why  I  wanted  that  doctor  out  of 
the  way." 

"You  mean — you  can't  defend  him?"  Dismayed 
incredulity  held  her.  "Dick,"  she  whispered,  "you 
— you  're  not — afraid?" 

"Afraid?"  he  repeated  scornfully.     "Of  what?" 

"Then  why — why — "     Puzzled,  shaken,  she  did 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  177 

not  know  how  to  phrase  the  question;  but  Dick  an- 
swered it  for  her,  even  though,  so  concentrated  were 
his  thoughts  on  the  diabolically  ingenious  scheme 
spelling  ruin  for  him,  he  was  scarcely  conscious  of 
her  presence. 

"Why,  it  Js  a  trap,  that 's  what  it  is !  The  boys 
were  all  right  this  afternoon.  They  've  been  stirred 
up — talked  into  this !  It 's  a  trick,  a  trap ;  they  Ve 
put  up  a  job  on  me,  a  dirty,  rotten  job  to  do  me!" 
Under  the  heavy  arch  of  his  brows  his  eyes  were 
blazing;  he  was  beside  himself  with  rage — helpless, 
impotent  rage.  "They  've  got  me  right,  no  matter 
what  I  do !  Oh,  they  're  clever,  all  right !  They — " 

"But  who*?"  Jean  was  more  bewildered  than  ever. 
His  outburst  brought  no  enlightenment  to  her.  A 
trap;  a  dirty,  rotten  job;  "they"  had  got  him  right. 
The  phrases  jumbled  themselves  into  a  meaningless 
chaos  in  her  mind.  "What  are  you  talking  about? 
Who,  Dick?" 

"Who?  Why—"  In  the  nick  of  time,  he 
caught  himself.  Like  a  douche  of  cold  water  there 
dashed  over  him  the  realization  that  it  was  Jean 
Ainsworth  to  whom  he  was  talking — Jean,  the 
daughter  of  the  man  in  whose  crafty  brain  had  been 
conceived  the  appalling  dilemma  with  which  he 
found  himself  confronted.  He  made  a  quick,  sweep- 
ing gesture  with  his  hand.  "Oh,  I  can't  explain 
now,  Jean,"  he  said.  "It 's  politics." 


178  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

She  recognized  the  statement  for  what  it  was.  All 
her  life  she  had  been  put  off  with  evasions  when  she 
had  asked  for  explanations.  From  her  father  she 
was  accustomed  to  them;  but,  so  far  as  she  knew, 
this  was  the  first  that  Dick  had  ever  offered  her. 
And  she  would  have  none  of  it. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  she  began,  "that  any 
man,  or  any  number  of  men,  would — " 

"I  have  n't  time  to  tell  you  anything,"  he  inter- 
rupted desperately,  "except  that  I  'm  in  a  hell  of  a 
fix!"  He  swung  away  from  her,  half-way  to  the 
wide  double  doors  at  the  end  of  the  corridor  and 
back. 

Jean  watched  the  tall,  striding  figure  with  anxious 
fascination.  Never  before  had  she  seen  Dick  angry ; 
the  strength  of  his  emotion  seemed  in  a  breath  to 
have  changed  him  into  another  man,  quite  strange  to 
her;  strange  and  rather  terrible.  She  said  with  an 
almost  pleading  deference : 

"But  I  don't  understand  at  all,  Dick.  Won't  you 
tell  me?  Won't  you  explain  what  is  the  matter?" 

With  a  supreme  effort  he  pulled  himself  together, 
forcing  himself  to  speak  quietly. 

"Can't  you  see,  Jean?  When  the  boys  come  up 
here  after  Blake,  they  '11  mean  business.  If  I  let 
them  have  him,  I  '11  be  branded  for  the  rest  of  my 
life — that  I  broke  my  oath  of  office,  sullied  the 
honor  of  the  State,  and  all  that  rot." 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  179 

"But  you  're  not  going  to  let  them  have  him, 
Dick!" 

"If  I  don't,  somebody  's  going  to  get  hurt!" 

"Oh,  Dick!  I  know;  but  even  if  they  are — " 

He  stared  at  her. 

"Why,  it 's  my  own  crowd !"  he  said. 

"But  if  they  're  all  your  friends  you  can  talk  to 
them,  can't  you"? — reason  with  them." 

"Reason  with  them*?"  He  laughed  discordantly. 
"The  only  argument  they'll  listen  to  is  a  gun! 
They  '11  come  up  here  half  drunk  and  wild  with  ex- 
citement; and  if  I  try  to  stop  them,  I'll  have  to 
shoot,  and  shoot  to  kill !  They  'd  never  think  I  was 
serious  if  I  threatened  them;  they  wouldn't  un- 
derstand. They  'd  think  I  was  bluffing  to  save  my 
face ;  and  then  they  'd  always  believe  that  I  tricked 
them,  that  I  went  back  on  them.  But" — grimly — 
"I  'm  not  going  back  on  them!" 

"Dick!     You—" 

He  would  not  let  her  speak.  He  plunged  on, 
with  edged  irony: 

"I  '11  take  my  chances  with  the  'respectable  ele- 
ment' of  the  town!  They  're  not  the  ones  who  get 
out  and  vote  on  election  day!  My  friends,  the 
fellows  they  call  the  roughnecks,  made  me  sheriff. 
They  've  stood  by  me  all  along,  and  now  I  '11  stick  to 
them!" 

Jean's  breath  caught  in  her  throat;  an  odd  wave 


i8o          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

of  faintness  surged  over  her.  She  moved  uncer- 
tainly toward  the  broad,  uncurtained  window  that 
overlooked  the  street,  and,  lifting  the  sash,  leaned 
for  a  moment  on  the  sill  to  steady  herself.  The 
cool  night  air  brushed  the  dizziness  from  her  brain, 
cleared  to  some  extent  the  obscuring  mental  fog. 

Directly  in  front  of  the  lawn  that  stretched  be- 
fore the  hospital  was  a  small  elongated  square, 
formed  by  the  intersection  of  three  streets,  and 
thickly  bordered  with  trees  and  shrubbery.  In  the 
middle  of  it  was  a  single  sputtering  arc-lamp  that 
spread  a  small  circle  of  dim,  fluctuating  light  to  the 
center  of  the  square  and  left  the  edges  in  deep 
shadow. 

A  faint,  creaking  sound  set  Jean's  taut  nerves 
aquiver;  she  stared  anxiously  out  into  the  night, 
hoping,  praying  with  an  agony  of  supplication  that 
Doctor  Evans  might  have  been  successful  in  his 
mission;  but  the  sound  died  away  in  the  distance 
and  silence  descended — that  heavy,  sinister  silence 
that  had  oppressed  her  before,  and  now  filled  her 
with  shivering  dread.  A  little  throbbing  pulse  beat 
in  her  throat,  chokingly.  To  her  overwrought 
senses  it  seemed  that  the  dusky  shadows  on  the 
lawn  beneath  the  trees  were  alive  with  vague,  in- 
tangible forms,  flitting  this  way  and  that,  dodging 
from  tree  trunk  to  tree  trunk.  She  could  not  see 
distinctly,  but — surely  that  was  not  the  wind  stir- 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  181 

ring  the  shrubbery*?  There  in  the  darkness,  at  the 
left  of  the  path — was  it — was  n't  it — a  knot  of 
dim  figures? 

Behind  her  she  heard  the  steady  thud,  thud  of 
Dick's  heels  as  he  paced  up  and  down  the  length 
of  the  corridor.  She  turned  from  the  window, 
holding  her  voice  steady. 

"Then  you  're  not  even  going  to  try  to  stop 
them?"  she  asked.  "You  won't  even  try?" 

"No!"  He  snapped  out  the  monosyllable  ex- 
plosively. "I've  nothing  to  gain  and  everything  to 
lose !  Let  them  have  him.  It 's  the  best  way  out 
of  it." 

Her  hands  were  clasped  together  to  quiet  their 
trembling.  Her  eyes — dark  troubled  pools  in  the 
pale  oval  of  her  face — were  fearful,  beseeching. 

"Oh,  Dick,"  she  said,  "how  can  you?  How  can 
you  talk  about  the  best  way  out  for  yourself  when 
a  man's  life  is  at  stake?" 

"A  man?  You  call  that  beast  in  there  a  man? 
He  deserves  all  he  '11  get;  and  he  '11  be  hanged,  any- 
way, in  a  couple  of  months.  He  's  the  last  thing 
to  be  considered.  He  's  nothing  but  a  dirty,  cow- 
ardly murderer  who — " 

"No  matter  what  he  is  or  what  he  's  done,  he  's 
entitled  to  a  trial!"  she  interrupted.  "But  that 
is  n't  the  point.  He  's  in  your  charge,  and  you  've 
sworn  to  protect  him !" 


182  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"I  did  n't  swear  to  play  into  the  hands  of  the  men 
who  put  up  this  job  on  me!"  he  retorted  grimly. 
"I  'm  going  to  act  as  I  think  best,  not  as  they  'd 
like  to  have  me !" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  're  talking  about,  but 
I  do  know  that  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  this. 
You  're  the  sheriff!"  She  took  a  step  forward,  and 
hurled  the  words  at  him.  "You  've  got  to  stop 
those  men !" 

"What1?"  he  demanded  harshly.  "Ruin  my 
career,  smash  my  future,  shoot  down  my  friends, 
and  all  for  the  sake  of  a  filthy  murderer*?" 

"Not  for  him,  no!     For  yourself!" 

"For  me?" — with  fierce  sarcasm. 

"Yes,  for  you!"  She  was  as  fierce  now  as  he. 
She  was  trembling  no  longer.  A  hot  color  burned 
in  her  cheeks;  her  eyes  were  flaming  coals.  White 
wrath,  a  bitter,  incredulous  scorn,  barbed  her  tongue. 
"Have  you  no  honor,  no  self -respect1?  You  took 
an  oath  to  uphold  law  and  order.  You  're  not  even 
making  an  attempt  to  keep  it!" 

He  jerked  his  head  in  a  gesture  of  exasperated 
impotence. 

"Oh,  Jean,  can't  you  see  that 's  all  theory? 
We  're  facing  facts  now !" 

"Yes,  we're  facing  facts  now!"  she  shot  back 
at  him  tensely.  "The  fact  of  whether  you  're  going 
to  act  like  a  man  or  a  coward!  What  did  you 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  183 

promise  me  a  few  minutes  ago  when  you  told  me 
you  loved  me"?  That  you  were  going  to  stand 
on  your  feet  like  a  man  and  face  the  issue,  no  matter 
what  it  might  be !  And  you  've  failed  at  the  first 
test!" 

"You  don't  understand — " 

"I  understand  that  right  and  wrong  are  squarely 
before  you,  and  you're  choosing  the  wrong!"  She 
seemed  fairly  to  tower  as  she  stood  there,  straight 
and  slender,  her  lithe  young  figure  drawn  up  to  its 
full  height,  her  head  flung  back  so  that  her  great 
eyes  blazed  into  his.  Tingling,  on  fire  to  her  very 
finger-tips,  she  was  the  embodied  spirit  of  strength, 
of  pride,  of  fierce,  indomitable  courage;  she  was 
primitive  womanhood  embattled,  fighting  with  all 
the  weapons  at  her  command  for  the  honor  of  the 
man  she  loved. 

To  Dick  Leighton  there  was  something  almost 
tragic  in  the  passionate  beauty  of  her;  it  gripped 
him  irresistibly,  even  while  the  futility  of 
making  her  understand  rendered  his  plea  almost 
despairing. 

"Jean,  listen.  You  don't  know  what  you  're 
asking.  It  is  n't  just  now,  just  to-night.  You 
want  me  to  throw  away  everything  I  've  accom- 
plished in  the  past,  tear  down  all  I  've  built  up, 
utterly  spoil  every  chance  for  my  future — our 
future — " 


184  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"I  'd  rather  marry  a  man  with  a  past  than  a 
coward  with  a  future!" 

"You're  not  just,  Jean;  you're  not  fair  to  me! 
These  men  you  're  telling  me  to  shoot  down — 
they  're  my  friends !  They  trust  me — trust  me,  do 
you  hear?  And  I'll  not  betray  them." 

She  did  not  give  an  inch. 

"There's  just  one  right  way,  and  you  've  got  to 
take  it !"  she  cried.  "Your  duty  is  clear.  Do  it !" 

"Duty  be  damned!"  His  self-control  snapped 
like  an  overstrained  cord;  he  swung  his  arm  with 
a  gesture  of  savage  impatience.  "Jean,  I  've — " 
He  stopped  abruptly;  his  arm  dropped  to  his  side. 
"They  're  here,"  he  said. 


XVII 

FOR  an  instant  Jean  could  hear  nothing.  Then 
she  became  aware  of  a  low,  confused  murmur. 
The  open  space  about  the  arc-lamp  was  filled  with 
a  mass  of  men,  jostling  this  way  and  that.  A  single 
voice  shrilled  out.  The  black  mass  undulated, 
swayed;  then,  as  a  dense  cloud  of  murky  smoke  is 
vomited  from  the  mouth  of  a  cannon,  it  poured  over 
the  lawn  and  into  the  building. 

Shuddering,  sick,  Jean  shrank  back  from  the 
window.  Her  lips  moved,  formed  Dick's  name, 
but  she  did  not  utter  it.  He  stood  in  the  doorway 
of  Blake's  room,  his  whole  body  rigid,  his  hands 
clenched  into  fists.  Then,  with  a  bound,  he  was 
across  the  corridor;  the  double  doors  slammed  shut. 
Where  reason  and  argument  had  failed,  instinct 
rose  irresistibly  and  took  command. 

"Get  into  that  room!"  he  ordered,  over  his 
shoulder,  while  he  jammed  the  bolts  into  place. 
"Quick!" 

She  found  her  voice. 

"Dick!     Dick!  what  are  you  going  to  do1?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  let  them  take  that  man !"  He 
had  to  shout  his  answer,  above  the  uproar  on  the 

185 


i86  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

stairs.  The  whole  building  seemed  to  shake  to  the 
rush  of  trampling  feet. 

"Oh !"  breathed  Jean.     "Oh !" 

A  smothered  cry  came  from  the  prisoner's  room. 

"He 's  awake  now,  all  right !"  Dick  muttered 
grimly.  "He  knows  what  they're  after!" 

Some  one  seized  the  door-handle  and  rattled  it 
violently,  shouting:  "Open  up,  there !  Open  up !" 
A  blow  smashed  against  the  panels — another  and 
another;  and  with  every  shock  the  furious  voices 
rose  to  a  roar. 

"Get  into  that  room,  I  tell  you!"  Dick  ordered 
Jean  again.  "Hurry!" 

She  did  not  move.  For  the  first  time  fear  for 
his  personal  safety  gripped  her. 

"Oh,  Dick,  you'll  be  hurt!"  she  gasped. 
"They'll  kill  you!" 

Without  another  word  he  leaped  toward  her, 
caught  her  arm,  and  swept  her  into  the  prisoner's 
room.  On  the  threshold  he  wheeled,  with  drawn 
revolver. 

And  now  the  blows  rained  fast  and  furious  on  the 
doors.  They  strained,  groaned,  shivered — and 
flew  open  with  a  crash.  The  aperture  was  choked 
with  men,  men  whose  faces,  only  partly  visible 
beneath  rude  masks  of  cloth,  or  knotted  handker- 
chiefs, were  distorted  with  rage  and  hate  and  the 
lust  of  blood. 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  187 

"Stop!"  Dick's  voice  rang  out  harshly,  like  the 
warning  clang  of  an  alarm  bell.  "What  do  you 
want?" 

"We  want  him!"  came  the  answer  in  a  gruff 
chorus,  to  which  an  agonized  shriek  from  the  pris- 
oner's room  made  a  hideous  obligate. 

"Well,  you  can't  have  him!"  Dick's  eyes,  hard 
and  penetrating,  darted  from  one  to  another  of  the 
crowd;  but  the  grotesque  masks  made  an  effectual 
disguise  for  every  face.  "You  can't  have  him!" 
he  repeated. 

"The  hell  we  can't!"  growled  a  deep  voice. 
"Don't  you  make  no  trouble,  Dick;  you  're  all 
right,  but  we  want  that  cuss  an'  we're  goin'  to  have 
him!" 

There  was  a  yell  of  approval ;  but  Dick  shook  his 
head. 

"Hold  on,  boys,"  he  said  sternly.  "You  're 
going  too  fast.  You  just  listen  to  me  for  a 
minute." 

"We  '11  listen  to  nothin' !"  rumbled  a  tall  man 
with  a  slouch  hat  pulled  down  over  his  forehead. 
"We  mean  business !" 

"So  do  I!  The  first  man  that  starts  anything 
is  going  to  get  hurt !  That  goes!  There  is  n't 
going  to  be  any  lynching  to-night !" 

Some  one  laughed  out  excitedly;  the  crowd 
shifted,  jostled. 


i88  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"Cut  the  comedy,  Dick!"  advised  the  tall  man. 
"We  're  all  friends  here." 

"Friends?"  Dick  caught  up  his  cue.  "Friends'? 
A  fine  lot  of  friends  you  are!  Can't  you  see  this 
is  a  dirty  job  to  do  me?"  He  was  crouching  a 
little,  his  head  thrust  forward  between  his  hunched 
shoulders.  The  round  black  barrel  of  his  revolver, 
pointing  straight  into  the  crowd,  never  wavered. 
"Well,  it 's  not  going  through !  I  mean  it !  Now 
clear  out  before  somebody  gets  hurt !" 

Again  the  crowd  shifted,  but  this  time  uneasily. 
A  murmur  rose. 

"Aw,  he's  only  stalling,  fellows!"  A  man  in 
the  outer  corridor  began  to  push  his  way  forward. 
"Don't  let  him  bluff  you !  Go  on !" 

"Stop!"  There  was  no  indecision,  no  wavering 
of  purpose  in  that  voice.  Here  was  no  longer  Dick 
Leighton,  politician,  plausible  casuist,  anxious  to 
win  and  hold  the  favor  of  the  men  before  him,  but 
Dick  Leighton,  sheriff  of  the  county,  keeping  his 
sworn  oath  to  protect  the  prisoner  in  his  charge. 
With  the  issue  squarely  before  him  he  faced  it  in- 
stinctively and  unflinchingly.  He  did  not  speak 
loudly,  but  there  was  fearlessness  and  power  in  every 
note  of  his  level  voice. 

"This  is  a  put-up  job,  boys,"  he  went  on,  "and 
you've  been  tricked  into  it.  Who  talked  you 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  189 

into  this?  Who  's  going  to  profit  by  it?  I  '11  tell 
you !  It 's — " 

"You  liar!"  The  hesitating  group  in  the  door- 
way was  thrust  aside ;  a  roughly  dressed  man  leaped 
forward,  brandishing  a  revolver.  "Come  on,  boys !" 
he  yelled;  and  leaped  straight  at  Dick. 

The  sheriff  fired.  In  the  cloud  of  acrid  smoke 
that  swirled  from  the  barrel  of  the  revolver  the  man 
spun  slowly  around,  fell  to  his  knees,  and  then 
collapsed  in  a  crumpled  heap. 

For  a  breath  there  was  silence,  thick,  suffocating 
silence,  pregnant  with  awful  possibilities.  Across 
it  flashed  Jean  Ainsworth's  white-clad  figure. 

"Stop — oh,  stop!"  Her  hands,  red-stained, 
were  outstretched;  her  face  was  gray  with  terror. 
"It's  no  use!  Blake  is  dead!" 

Silence  again,  broken  only  by  the  hissing  indrawn 
breath  of  the  crowd.  Then  the  tall  man  stooped 
over  the  huddled  figure  on  the  floor,  fumbling  with 
the  gaudy  handkerchief  that  concealed  the  face. 

"Well,  then,  Leighton,"  he  said,  "you  've  done 
a  hell  of  a  fine  job  for  nothin' !" 

The  handkerchief  fell  at  Dick's  feet. 

"Christ!"   he  whispered. 

Jean  stumbled  to  her  knees  beside  the  body  of 
her  brother.  She  lifted  his  head;  it  lolled  limply 
back  across  her  arm.  There  was  no  pulse-beat  in 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

the  loose  wrist,  no  flutter  of  breath  between  the 
lips. 

On  the  floor  a  slow  stain  spread  and  widened. 

David  Ainsworth  had  lost  his  most  dependable 
worker.  Tommy  would  carry  no  more  news  from 
Jackson's  place  to  the  study  in  the  big  house  on  the 
hill. 


XVIII 

MARY  NESTOR  set  the  coffee-tray  on  a  little 
table  in  the  hall  outside  Jean's  room  and 
tiptoed  downstairs  again.  She  opened  the  door  of 
the  library  and  went  in,  walking  very  softly,  as  if 
some  one  were  asleep  whom  she  feared  to  waken. 
No  one  was  asleep  in  that  house;  she  herself  had 
not  closed  her  eyes  all  night.  But  the  stillness,  the 
heavy,  oppressive  stillness  that  broods  under  the 
shadow  of  the  wings  of  death,  had  invaded  every 
room,  muffled  every  footstep,  every  spoken  word. 
A  chill  rain  beat  against  the  window-panes;  the 
closely  drawn  curtains  swayed  a  little  in  the  draft 
that  breathed  through  the  cracks.  On  the  hearth 
the  charred  logs  lay  blackened  and  cold,  among  the 
ashes.  In  the  wan,  wet  light  that  filtered  through 
the  storm-splashed  panes  the  furniture  loomed 
strange  and  oddly  different,  taking  on  dubious 
shapes,  like  the  furniture  of  a  familiar  room  seen 
in  a  dream. 

It  was  all  like  a  dream,  indeed — a  phantas- 
magoria of  impossible  horrors.  Mary  Nestor's 
harassed  brain  could  not  weld  the  details  of  the 
night's  happenings  into  a  unified  whole.  There  was 

191 


192  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

only  a  series  of  pictures,  a  throng  of  jumbled  im- 
pressions, set  in  motion  by  the  vague  telephone 
message  of  an  "accident"  at  the  hospital,  and  mo- 
mentarily becoming  more  confused  and  terrible — : 
the  bare,  white-walled  room,  the  crowd  of  curious 
faces,  queerly  distorted  in  the  uncertain  light;  the 
still,  motionless  form  on  the  floor;  Jean,  stricken, 
disheveled,  her  white  gown  streaked  and  stained, 
her  eyes  dry  pools  of  despair;  Dick  Leighton's  pale 
face,  set  and  awful  in  its  dumb  horror. 

And  through  it  all,  like  some  gaunt  spirit  re- 
curring in  the  dream,  stalked  the  figure  of  David 
Ainsworth,  silent,  spectre-like.  Mary  Nestor  shud- 
dered away  from  the  memory  of  the  look  that  had 
come  into  his  face  when  he  bent  over  the  body  of  his 
son.  But  there  was  no  trace  of  that  look  when  he 
came  to  the  doorway  of  the  library;  his  voice  held 
its  customary  ring  of  curt  authority. 

"We  '11  have  some  lights,  please,  Mary,"  he  said, 
and  pushed  the  electric  wall  button.  "Did  you 
telephone  for  McAllister  again  ?" 

"Yes.  He  was  n't  there.  His  assistant  said 
they  would  try  to  find  him,  but  he  had  left  the 
house  early,  and  he  had  n't  come  to  the  office." 

The  Congressman  walked  over  to  the  fireplace 
and  stood  looking  down  at  the  heap  of  strewn  ashes, 
his  hands  clasped  behind  him.  He  was  frowning. 

"It 's  outrageous,  his  taking  himself  off  in  this 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  193 

fashion !"  he  said,  more  to  himself  than  to  his  sister- 
in-law.  "He  must  know  that  I  need  him!  He 
ought  to  have  come  without  being  sent  for!"  His 
fingers  twitched.  "Did  you  impress  it  on  them  at 
'The  Register'  office  that  I  must  see  him  without 
delay,  Mary?" 

"Yes."  Mary  Nestor  knew  that  the  brief 
affirmative  was  all  that  he  required  or  desired  from 
her;  it  was  not  her  part  to  comment  or  question. 
But  she  could  not  help  feeling  that  his  apparent 
interest  in  everyday  matters,  his  persistent  attempts 
to  reach  Samuel  McAllister — a  man,  who,  no 
matter  what  his  business  connections,  had  never 
been  a  close  friend  of  the  family — showed  a  callous- 
ness, a  lack  of  consideration  for  the  ordinary  pro- 
prieties that  was  almost  indecent.  She  asked 
gravely:  "But,  David,  at  such  a  time,  is  it  neces- 
sary?" 

He  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"My  dear  Mary,  of  course  it  is  necessary,"  he 
said,  without  turning.  "I  should  hardly  make  a 
point  of  it  if  it  were  not.  I  '11  give  him  another 
half-hour.  Have  you  talked  to  Jean  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"Just  a  word.  I  took  some  coffee  up  to  her  a 
few  minutes  ago.  She  said  she  'd  be  down  in  a 
little  while." 

"Then  you  have  n't  questioned  her?" 


194  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

Miss  Nestor  shook  her  head. 

"No;  I  felt  that  she  wasn't  in  any  condition  to 
be  questioned.  I  've  heard  her  stirring  about  in 
her  room  all  night.  Poor  child!  poor  child!  what 
a  terrible  experience  for  her!" 

The  tears  started  afresh;  Miss  Nestor  tried  to 
blink  them  back,  and  turned  her  head  away,  so 
that  her  brother-in-law  should  not  see.  He  had 
always  hated  tears,  holding  that  they  were  a  sign 
not  only  of  weakness,  but  of  mere  surface  emotion ; 
and  her  grief  for  Tommy  was  anything  but  super- 
ficial. Much  as  the  boy  had  tried  her,  severely  as 
she  -had  at  times  disapproved  of  and  censured  him, 
he  had  been  very  dear  to  her;  she  had  loved  him 
almost  as  much  as  if  she  had  actually  been  the 
mother  whose  place  she  had  so  sincerely  striven  to 
take. 

"Oh,  David!"  she  burst  out  suddenly,  "if  only 
Tommy  had  stayed  at  home  last  night,  this 
would  n't  have  happened !  He  was  so  excitable,  so 
easily  led.  I  've  been  so  afraid  he  'd  get  into  some 
trouble.  They  're  always  drinking  and  fighting 
downtown  there.  If  only  we  'd  kept  him  home!" 

"Mary,  this  can  do  no  good,"  Ainsworth  began. 

"No;  nothing  can  do  any  good  now.  It's  too 
late.  But  if  you  'd  only  listened  to  me,  David — " 

He  wheeled  quickly. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  195 

"You  know,  I  've  asked  you  again  and  again  not 
to  let  Tommy  go  over  there,  and  you  not  only  let 
him,  you  encouraged  him.  I  pleaded  with  you  to 
keep  him  home  more,  and  you  made  light  of  every- 
thing I  said.  You  were  so  sure  he  was  all  right; 
but  he  was  only  a  boy,  and  all  the  things  he  saw 
and  heard  in  those  low  saloons  were  leaving  their 
marks  on  him:"  All  the  restraining  barriers  built 
up  by  years  of  repression  were  swept  away  in  the 
tumultuous  flood  of  her  grief.  She  rushed  on,  deaf 
to  Ainsworth's  smothered  protest,  blind  to  the  gray 
pallor  that  had  settled  on  his  face:. 

"He  was  n't  the  same.  He  was  n't  my  dear, 
lovable  Tommy.  I  was  so  worried!  I  didn't 
know  from  day  to  day — oh,  this  is  what  I  feared 
would  come,  some  terrible  thing — " 

"You  're  talking  wildly,  Mary,"  he  interrupted 
her  hoarsely.  "The  boy  was  all  right,  I  tell  you ! 
He  was  doing  good  work  for  me." 

"Yes,  but  I  warned  you,  David,  about  the  in- 
fluences— the  associates.  What  were  they  doing 
last  night?  Trying  to  commit  murder!  And 
Tommy — why,  it  may  even  have  been  that  he  was 
there  on  your  account,  and  got  swept  away  by  the 
excitement  before  he  realized  what  he  was  doing!" 

"Silence!"  In  one  stride  Ainsworth  was  beside 
her.  "How  dare  you  say  such  things?  You  don't 
know  what  you  're  talking  about !" 


196          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"I  feared  it — oh,  I  feared  it!"  She  beat  her 
hands  distractedly  together.  "And  now  it 's 
brought  him  to  his  death — such  a  death — " 

He  seized  her  violently  by  the  shoulders,  thrust- 
ing his  face,  convulsed  and  haggard,  within  an  inch 
of  hers ;  there  were  streaks  of  blood  across  the  balls 
of  his  eyes. 

"Silence,  I  tell  you !  Do  you  want  Jean  to  hear 
you1?  Be  still,  woman!" 

The  reference  to  Jean  did  more  to  check  her 
outburst  than  his  violence.  She  tottered  to  a  chair 
and  sank  weakly  into  it,  covering  her  eyes  with  her 
hands.  He  stood  glaring  down  at  her,  his  shoulders 
heaving  with  his  stertorous  breathing,  his  fingers 
opening  and  shutting  jerkily,  claw-like.  It  was  a 
full  moment  before  he  could  command  his  voice  at 
all;  when  he  did  speak  again,  it  was  in  a  labored, 
unnatural  fashion. 

"There  was  no  question  of  murder  involved,  none 
at  all.  Blake  was  a  criminal,  of  the  lowest,  vilest 
type,  who  deserved  no  more  consideration  than  a 
mad  dog.  He  would  have  hanged  inevitably  in  a 
few  weeks." 

Miss  Nestor  managed  to  control  her  sobs,  but 
the  tears  still  coursed  down  her  cheeks  as  she  lifted 
her  face. 

"Even  so,  David,  it  was  wrong." 

"Not  necessarily."     Outwardly,  at  least,  David 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  197 

Ainsworth  was  himself  again.  He  went  over  to  the 
fireplace  and  stationed  himself  with  his  back  to  it. 
"Not  necessarily,  at  all.  Looking  at  it  from  a 
rational  point  of  view,  imtinged  by  any  sentimen- 
talism,  the  community  would  have  been  bettered  by 
the  death  of  a  scoundrel,  and  an  example  of  prompt 
justice  would  have  been  shown  that  would  have  a 
restraining  effect  on  others  of  his  kind." 

"But,  David,"  protested  Miss  Nestor  in  amaze- 
ment, "that 's  mob-law !  It 's  directly  opposed  to 
everything  you  've  always  stood  for !  It 's  not 
right.  You  can't  mean  you  think  it 's  right,  or 
that  Tommy  could  have  thought  so?  Oh,  he  never 
did,  David!  It  was  wrong,  absolutely  wrong! 
Blake  would  have  been  executed;  he  wasn't  going 
to  escape  justice.  But  they  couldn't  wait;  they 
wanted  to  take  the  law  into  their  own  hands.  They 
have  no  regard  for  it;  they  never  have  had. 
They  're  always  drinking  and  shooting  and  killing 
one  another  downtown  there.  Until  this  past  year 
there  was  some  sort  of  fight  almost  every  night. 
Most  of  the  disorder  has  been  stopped  by  Mr. 
Leighton;  but — " 

"Leighton!"  At  the  name  the  dark  blood 
whipped  into  Ainsworth's  cheeks. 

"Yes.  He  's  done  more  than  any  one  else  has 
ever  been  able  to ;  he  's  had  more  influence.  But 
even  he  can't  control  their  evil  and  lawlessness  alto- 


198  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

gether.  And  then — last  night — oh,  the  poor  boy! 
How  must  he  have  felt  When  he  found  out  who  it 
was  he  had  shot !" 

"When  he  found  out?"  sneered  the  Congressman. 
"He  knew  well  enough  who  it  was !  That 's  why 
he  did  it — damn  him!" 

"My  God !"  White-lipped,  appalled,  she  started 
to  her  feet,  drawing  away  from  him  as  if  he  had 
struck  her.  "David,  how  can  you  say  such  a  thing? 
He  didn't  know  who  it  was,  and  he  had  to 
shoot.  He  did  n't  know  Tommy  was  there." 

"He  did,  or  he  never  would  have  fired !  Do  you 
suppose  he  'd  have  shot  one  of  his  own  crowd  and 
queered  his  chances  of  election?  Not  he!  But 
when  he  recognized  Tommy,  he  saw  an  opportunity 
to  make  a  parade  of  his  courage,  to  uphold  the  law ! 
Know  who  it  was?"  He  laughed  bitterly,  sar- 
donically. "Of  course  he  knew!" 

"But — but  it's  impossible,  David!"  she  pro- 
tested, in  blank  incredulity.  "Why,  he — he  liked 
Tommy;  he  told  me  so.  And  he — oh,  it's  too 
utterly  insane!  Dick  Leighton?  He  wouldn't 
hurt  any  one,  if  he  could  help  it,  not  even  his  worst 
enemy.  I  've  known  him  all  his  life.  And  what 
could  he  possibly  gain  by  it  in  the  election?  Every 
one  wants  him  for  sheriff — " 

"Sheriff?  He's  not  going  to  run  for  sheriff! 
He  's  after  my  seat  in  Congress."  Ainsworth  took 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  199 

a  step  forward;  his  jaw  quivered  under  the  tension 
of  the  tight-drawn  muscles.  "He  's  been  scheming 
and  working  for  months.  I  've  only  just  found  out 
how  he  's  been  steadily  undermining  me." 

"It 's  impossible!"  she  gasped. 

"No  chicanery  is  impossible  in  politics.  Leigh- 
ton  wants  to  go  to  Congress  in  my  place — my  place, 
I  tell  you !" — he  struck  the  table  in  front  of  him  a 
crashing  blow  with  his  fist — "the  place  I  have  held 
for  years,  that  I  have  made  rightfully  my  own  by 
faithful  service,  and  that  should  be  mine  as  long 
as  I  live !  He  means  to  have  it !  He  's  left  no 
stone  unturned  to  rob  me  of  it.  He  did  n't  even 
stop  at  taking  the  life  of  my  son !" 

"Oh,  David,  David!     I  can't  believe  it!" 

Nor  did  it  seem  even  remotely  credible.  Dick 
Leighton,  the  frank,  straightforward  boy  of  whom 
she  had  been  so  fond,  the  boy  whom  Gordon  Ran- 
dolph  had  loved  as  a  son?  Impossible! 

"It's  true!"  said  Ainsworth;  and  conviction 
swept  over  her  icily.  "Cory  Jackson,  Murray,  that 
scurrilous  sheet  they  print  over  there — they  're  all 
behind  him.  It 's  a  systematic  effort.  But  all 
this  is  a  waste  of  time.  I  've  got  to  see  McAllister 
I  don't  know  what  the  man  's  thinking  about  not 
to  be  here!" 

Miss  Nestor  sat  down — collapsed,  rather — in  her 
chair,  and  closed  her  eyes.  The  horror  of  the  night 


200  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

before,  that  nightmare  horror,  was  upon  her  again, 
in  all  its  fantastic  hideousness.  Was  there  to  be 
no  end  to  it?  First  Tommy  and  now — Jean.  She 
shivered  as  if  with  cold. 

"David,  this  will  kill  Jean.  After  the  shock  of 
Tommy's  death,  to  learn  that  Dick  Leighton — " 
Somehow,  she  could  not  finish;  the  words  "mur- 
dered him,"  simply  would  not  come.  She  kept 
saying  inwardly  that  she  did  not  believe  it;  it  was 
impossible.  And  yet — it  had  happened. 

Plastic,  submissive,  she  had  not  lived  for  many 
years  in  close  association  with  David  Ainsworth 
without  being  mentally  dominated  by  him.  The 
opinions  she  held  could  not  be  said  to  have  been 
colored  by  his;  in  all  essentials,  and  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  few  trivial  modifications,  inevitably 
the  result  of  her  gentle,  kindly  nature,  they  were 
his.  He  dictated  them  in  effect  as  he  dictated  the 
policy  of  "The  Register,"  and  they  became  her  views 
after  a  metamorphosis  no  more  extensive  than  that 
which  sufficed  to  transform  a  statement  by  David 
Ainsworth  into  an  editorial  by  Samuel  McAllister. 

Probably  but  twice  in  her  life  had  she  adopted 
a  definite  view-point  of  her  own,  or  dared  to 
formulate  it:  when  she  had  upheld  Jean's  deter- 
mination to  leave  Randolph,  and  when  she  had 
taken  issue  with  her  brother-in-law  in  regard  to 
Tommy's  associates  and  habits.  In  those  two 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  201 

instances  alone,  perhaps  because  the  principles 
involved  vitally  stirred  the  mother  love  within  her 
and  quickened  her  protective  instinct,  she  had  risen 
superior  to  mere  assertion,  and  had  unerringly  de- 
tected the  sophistry  in  arguments  that  would  or- 
dinarily have  seemed  unanswerable;  in  those  two 
alone. 

She  had  never  questioned  David  Ainsworth's 
right  indefinitely  to  continue  in  the  office  of  Con- 
gressman, any  more  than  he  himself  had  questioned 
it.  That  he  was  a  public  servant  and,  as  such, 
subject  to  the  will  of  the  people,  to  be  retained  in  or 
removed  from  office  according  to  their  dictum,  was 
a  proposition  to  which  she  had  given  no  attention 
whatever.  The  place  was  his;  it  belonged  to  him. 
His  right  to  it  was  inalienable.  An  attack  on  that 
right,  then,  an  attempt  to  deprive  him  of  it,  was  as 
unprincipled  as  it  was  treacherous  and  dastardly. 
The  man  who  could  conceive  it  and  carry  it  out 
would  scarcely  stop  at  anything. 

And  Jean  loved  him,  believed  in  him! 

"Oh,  David,"  said  Mary  Nestor,  "she  must  never 
know — never!" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"She  '11  have  to  know,  Mary,  and  the  sooner 
the  better  for  her.  It 's  for  her  own  good.  I  shall 
tell  her  at  once.  Do  you  say  to  her,  please,  that 
I  should  like  to  speak  with  her." 


202          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"But—" 

"At  once,  if  you  please!  You  're  wasting  time, 
and  time  is  precious  just  now.  Damn  McAllister!" 
he  rasped  out  sharply.  "Why  isn't  he  here?  I 
need  him ! — Mary,  call  Jean  immediately !" 

"You  '11  be  careful,  David?  Remember,  she  's — " 

"Yes,  yes!  Go  and  get  her,  please!"  He 
impatiently  waved  her  to  the  door.  As  she  dragged 
her  unwilling  feet  up  the  stairs,  she  heard  him  at 
the  telephone,  his  voice  hard,  curt,  commanding : 

"This  is  Ainsworth  talking.  Where 's  McAl- 
lister? .  .  .  Well,  find  him!  ...  I  don't  care; 
find  him,  I  say !" 


XIX 

TO  a  man  less  hag-ridden  than  was  David  Ains- 
worth,  the  wanton  cruelty  of  cross-examining 
a  woman  on  the  verge  of  collapse  would  have  been 
obvious.  Shock  and  exhaustion  had  hollowed 
Jean's  eyes,  painting  dark  circles  under  their  sockets 
and  etching  a  sharply  defined  line  of  white  about 
the  tender  mouth.  She  was  listless,  languid,  as  if 
all  the  vitality  and  resiliency  of  youth  had  gone 
out  of  her.  Mary  Nestor,  hovering  anxiously  in 
the  background,  cast  a  glance  of  urgent  appeal  at 
the  Congressman.  He  nodded  briefly,  and  went  to 
Jean's  side. 

"I  'm  sorry  I  had  to  send  for  you,  daughter," 
he  said,  as  he  took  her  hand  and  bent  to  touch  his 
lips  to  her  forehead.  "I  know  how  unstrung  you 
feel,  and  I  hate  to  trouble  you  with  questions  about 
last  night,  but  I  must." 

"I  told  you  all  there  is  to  tell,  Father."  She 
sat  down  in  the  chair  he  placed  for  her,  leaning 
her  head  wearily  back  against  the  cushions. 

"Not  in  detail,  Jean.  You  did  n't  even  explain 
how  it  was  that  you  came  to  be  at  the  hospital  in 
the  first  place.  What  prompted  you  to  go  there?" 

203 


204          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"I  did  n't  intend  to  go  when  I  started  out.  I 
felt  restless,  and  I  went  for  a  walk.  Then,  when 
I  got  over  by  the  hospital,  I  remembered  that  Dick 
was  there,  and  I  went  in  to  see  him." 

"After  what  I  said  to  you  before  dinner  yester- 
day*?" Ainsworth  hitched  his  own  chair  a  little 
closer  to  hers.  "Had  you  forgotten  that,  Jean*?" 

"No.  But  I  wanted  to  talk  to  him.  He  was  n't 
there,  but  Doctor  Evans  was.  And  then  the  nurse 
insisted  on  leaving,  and  I  told  the  doctor  I  'd  take 
her  place.  So  I  stayed." 

"I  see.  Then  you  were  tnere  some  time.  With 
whom?" 

"Why,  just  Doctor  Evans  and  Dick.  Bill  Mur- 
ray was  there  for  a  while,  but  he  went  home  to  get 
his  supper." 

"Then  you  three  were  alone  in  the  building  with 
the  prisoner  when  the  mob  came?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No;  only  Dick  and  I.  Dick  sent  Doctor  Evans 
after  help." 

"Help  for  what?" 

"To  get  Blake  away.  A  wagon  or  something. 
He  was  unconscious." 

"Ah,  yes,"  nodded  Ainsworth.  "But  what  made 
you  think  that  it  was  advisable  to  move  him?" 

Jean  brushed  her  hand  across  her  eyes.  So  much 
had  happened  since  then;  it  was  so  hard  to  remem- 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  205 

her;  and  she  was  very  tired.  Her  head  ached  and 
swam  dizzily.  She  wished  that  her  father  would 
not  make  her  answer  all  these  questions;  she  was 
so  very  tired.  She  said  slowly,  striving  to  recall 
the  scene  aright: 

"Why,  some  one  told  Doctor  Evans  that  they 
were  going  to  lynch  Blake.  He  rushed  upstairs  and 
told  us;  and  Dick  sent  him  right  out  after  help." 

"Some  one  told  Doctor  Evans,  you  say*?     Who*?'' 

"I  don't  remember  the  name,  but  it  was  some 
one  he  knew." 

"Ah!"  Ainsworth  leaned  forward  imperceptibly 
in  his  chair;  his  narrowed  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
girl's  face.  "A  rather  extraordinary  proceeding, 
was  it  not,  for  the  mob  to  send  a  messenger  to  warn 
the  sheriff?" 

"Oh,  but  the  man  was  a  friend  of  Dick's,"  Jean 
said,  with  something  more  nearly  approaching  ani- 
mation than  she  had  yet  shown.  "He  said  so." 

"Indeed!"  observed  Ainsworth,  dryly.  "Then 
the  doctor  didn't  get  back  in  time,  and  you  and 
Leigh  ton  were  there  alone?" 

"Yes,  Father."  She  relapsed  into  her  attitude  of 
apathetic  lassitude,  her  hand  shielding  her  half- 
closed  eyes  from  the  light.  She  answered  his  queries 
obediently,  submissively  following  the  leads  that  he 
gave  her,  without  in  the  least  realizing  his  object. 
She  did  not  know  why  he  was  questioning  her  so 


2o6  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

closely;  she  was  for  the  time  being  incapable  of 
analysis.  Her  sole  wish  was  to  be  left  alone,  in 
such  peace  as  she  might  find  in  the  quiet  of  her  own 
room.  "I  am  so  tired,  Father,"  she  murmured. 
"Mayn't  I  go  upstairs  now*?" 

Miss  Nestor  started  forward  impulsively,  but 
Ainsworth  stopped  her  with  a  peremptory  gesture. 

"In  just  a  moment.  There  are  one  or  two  more 
things —  What  was  Mr.  Leighton's  attitude  when  he 
realized  what  was  about  to  happen*?" 

"Why — why — "  she  hesitated  a  little — "he  was 
very  angry  at  first.  He  wanted  to  get  Blake  out, 
but  there  was  n't  time,  and  he  did  n't  know  quite 
what  to  do." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  said  that  if  he  defended  Blake,  some  one  was 
sure  to  get  hurt;  and  he  didn't  want  to  shoot  his 
friends." 

"No;  of  course  not!" 

She  did  not  sense  the  irony  in  her  father's  remark. 

"He  said  Blake  was  n't  worth  it." 

"Quite  so.  Blake  was  n't  worth  defending,  at 
the  risk  of  hurting  some  good  friend  of  his.  Is 
that  right?" 

"Yes,  Father." 

"Then — "  the  Congressman's  fingers  clutched  the 
arms  of  his  chair — "then  he  made  no  preparations  to 
resist?" 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE          207 

"Not  at  first."  She  was  quite  unconscious  that 
this  was  the  admission  into  which  her  father  had 
been  carefully  and  shrewdly  drawing  her.  "When 
we  heard  the  men  running  through  the  building,  he 
locked  the  corridor  doors." 

"Ah !  Then  he  had  decided  not  to  interfere  with 
his  friends,  who  had  thoughtfully  notified  him  in  ad- 
vance of  their  intentions,  until  the  mob  broke  in  and 
— he  recognized  Tommy!"  Brutally  plain,  the  ac- 
cusation burst  from  his  lips.  His  face  was  suffused, 
and  the  veins  on  his  temples  were  thick  and  con- 
gested. 

Miss  Nestor  gave  a  frightened  cry  and  started 
forward  again. 

"Oh,  David — take  care !"  She  ran  to  Jean,  who 
looked  up  with  a  little  puzzled  frown. 

"Recognized  Tommy*?"  she  repeated  vaguely. 
It  was  clear  that  she  did  not  understand  the  signif- 
icance of  her  father's  words. 

"He  would  n't  shoot  one  of  his  own  friends,  but 
he  did  n't  hesitate  to  kill  the  boy  whose  death  would 
work  no  injury  to  him!" 

For  a  moment  Jean  stared  at  him,  blankly,  un- 
comprehendingly.  Then,  as  his  meaning  was  slowly 
borne  in  upon  her  and  she  realized  the  enormity  of 
the  charge,  her  face  blanched;  sheer  horror  gripped 
her. 

"No!     No!"  she  cried  out.     "He  did  n't  know! 


208          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

They  were  all  masked.  He  could  n't  tell  one  from 
another!" 

"He  could  and  did!  If  he  hadn't,  he  never 
would  have  fired!" 

"No!  No!"  She  struck  her  clenched  hands  to- 
gether in  frantic  denial.  Speech  poured  from  her 
lips  in  an  incoherent  flood.  "He  did  n't  know  it 
was  Tommy!  No  one  dreamed  that  Tommy  was 
there.  He  had  to  fire  to  stop  them ;  they  were  rush- 
ing at  him!  He  didn't  know  who  they  were;  he 
could  n't  tell !  He  thought  they  were  all  his  friends ! 
He  did !  I  know  he  did !  That 's  why  he  said  he 
would  n't  shoot  when  I  told  him  he  had  to  defend 
Blake!  He  didn't  know!  He—" 

"You  told  him?     Why?     What  for?' 

She  tried  to  answer  and  could  not.  Her  breath 
came  in  labored  gasps;  she  was  holding  hysteria  at 
bay  by  sheer  force  of  will. 

"Why  did  you  tell  him  that?"  demanded  Ains- 
worth  fiercely.  "Answer  me!" 

"Because — "  she  faltered,  choked,  then  plunged 
on  blindly — "because  I  did  n't  want  the  man  I  love 
to  betray  his  trust,  to  fail — " 

"The  man  you  love !" 

"I'd  promised  to  marry  him;  it  was  only  last 

night,  before — before — it  all  happened.  I  love  him 
j » 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  209 

"Oh,  Jean!"  moaned  Miss  Nestor.  "Oh,  my 
poor  dear  child !" 

"I  warned  you!"  Ainsworth  rasped  harshly.  "I 
told  you  he  was  n't  fit  for  you  to  know !  He  's  a 
vile,  unprincipled  scoundrel,  a  treacherous  hound — " 

"But  it 's  not  true !     It 's  not  true !" 

"It 's  true  that  he  murdered  your  brother!" 
"No!  No!"  Her  voice  rose  shrilly.  "He  did  n't! 
He  did  n't !  He  was  only  trying  to  do  what  was 
right !  It 's  a  lie,  I  tell  you !  it 's  a  lie !"  She  was 
swaying  back  and  forth,  her  body  rigid,  stiff  from 
head  to  foot.  Her  eyes  rolled  convulsively. 

Ainsworth  was  a  little  frightened  at  the  wildness 
of  her  appearance.  The  fury  of  his  paroxysm 
passed ;  he  mastered  his  rage  with  a  supreme  effort. 

"Jean,  you  must  be  mad!  You're  beside  your- 
self," he  said  sternly.  "We  '11  let  this  matter  rest 
until  you  are  in  a  condition  to  think  and  reason 
clearly.  But  one  thing  you  must  understand:  you 
are  through  with  Leighton.  You  are  my  daughter, 
and  I  order  you  to  obey  me !" 

"Oh,  Father—" 

He  interrupted  her  brusquely. 

"I  'm  not  going  to  argue  with  you,  Jean.  I  have 
other  and  more  urgent  matters  to  attend  to.  When 
you  are  yourself,  we  will  go  into  it  again.  But  un- 
derstand me :  you  are  to  have  nothing  further  to  do 


210  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

with  this  man.  I  forbid  it !"  He  turned  and  went 
out  of  the  room.  A  moment  later  the  slam  of  the 
front  door  attested  to  the  fact  that  he  had  left  the 
house. 


XX 

JEAN  AINSWORTH  was  not  of  the  clinging 
type  of  woman.  Clear-headed,  sturdy,  well 
poised,  self-reliant,  she  had  created  favorable  notice 
and  comment  among  her  associates  in  New  York. 
She  had  borne  herself  splendidly,  meeting  more  than 
one  crisis  with  a  clear-headedness  worthy  of  an  older 
and  far  more  experienced  woman.  Her  hand  was 
always  sure,  her  nerves  steady.  She  made  no  costly 
mistakes.  "Let  me  have  Miss  Ainsworth,  please," 
had  been  a  sort  of  set  formula  adopted  by  the  hos- 
pital surgeons  whenever  they  had  an  especially  diffi- 
cult or  complicated  case.  They  would  not  have  re- 
cognized her  in  the  distraught  girl  who  clung  to 
Mary  Nestor  as  a  frightened  child  clings  to  its 
mother.  She  permitted  her  aunt  to  lead  her  up- 
stairs to  her  room;  but  she  would  not  lie  down;  she 
would  not  rest. 

"Oh,  Auntie,  what  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do?" 
she  moaned,  over  and  over.  "Father 's  so  bitter, 
he's  so  unjust,  so  terribly  unjust!  I  don't  know 
what  to  do,  Auntie;  it 's  all  so  ghastly." 

"There,  there,  dear,"  crooned  Miss  Nestor,  strok- 
ing the  girl's  tumbled  hair.  "Don't  cry  so.  It 

211 


212          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

will  be  all  right.  You  know  how  your  father  loved 
Tommy.  The  poor  boy's  death  has  been  a  fright- 
ful shock  to  him.  It 's  only  natural  that  he  should 
be  bitter  and  resentful." 

"But  can't  he  understand?  How  could  he  accuse 
Dick  of  such  an  awful  thing?  How  could  such  a 
thought  even  enter  his  mind?  Why,  Dick  was  ab- 
solutely horror-stricken  when  he  saw  who  it  was! 
And  Father—" 

"There,  there,  dear,"  her  aunt  interposed  sooth- 
ingly. "Wait  until  you  're  calmer.  We  've  all 
been  so  upset  that  everything  is  distorted.  It  will 
all  come  out  right." 

"I  tell  you,  Auntie,  Dick  could  n't  have  known 
Tommy!"  Jean  persisted  excitedly.  "He  was  be- 
hind two  or  three  others.  I  came  out  of  Blake's 
room  just  as  he  pushed  them  aside  and  burst  through, 
and  /  did  n't  recognize  him — my  own  brother.  His 
face  was  covered  up  with  a  handkerchief  and  he  had 
an  old  slouch  hat  pulled  down  over  his  forehead. 
His  clothes  were  rough,  too,  much  too  big  for  him. 
They  were  n't  at  all  like  the  ones  he  had  on  yester- 
day afternoon.  ;They  were  working-men's  clothes. 
He  looked  like  a  laborer  of  the  commonest  sort,  not 
in  the  least  like  himself.  You  saw  him,  Aunt  Mary; 
you  would  n't  have  known  him  if  his  face  had  been 
covered  up,  would  you?" 

"Now,  Jean,  don't  try  to  talk  about  it  any  more, 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  213 

You  're  all  worked  up,  and  overwrought.  Just  try 
to  rest,  won't  you*?" 

The  poor  lady  was  at  her  wits'  end ;  torn  between 
her  affection  and  pity  for  Jean  and  her  perfectly 
natural  desire  that  the  girl  should  realize  how  utterly 
base  was  the  man  to  whom  she  had  given  her  love. 
But  Jean  was  not  to  be  soothed  into  silence  or  di- 
verted from  the  subject.  She  went  on,  speaking 
rapidly,  feverishly: 

"I  don't  understand  how  Tommy  came  to  be  with 
those  men,  anyway.  They  were  n't  his  friends ;  they 
looked  like  mill-hands — the  rough  ones  that  are  al- 
ways making  trouble.  They  must  have  come  from 
downtown.  I  don't  see  how  Tommy  came  to  be 
with  them  at,  all." 

"Perhaps  he  was  working  downtown,"  suggested 
Miss  Nestor,  unguardedly.  "Somebody  may  have 
made  a  speech  that  influenced  him." 

'  'Working — downtown  *?" 

"Yes.  He  knew  a  number  of  the  men  there. 
Every  one  was  so  horrified  at  poor  Norah  Foster's 
death,  it 's  quite  possible  that  Tommy — " 

"I  don't  understand,  Aunt  Mary,"  Jean  inter- 
rupted. "You  said  Tommy  might  have  been  work- 
ing downtown.  What  kind  of  work?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know  exactly.  Something  to  do 
with  politics.  David  told  me  he  was  very  helpful. 
He  was  over  there  a  good  deal." 


214          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"Helpful*     To  whom?" 

"Why,  to  your  father,  of  course.  I  really  know 
nothing  about  it,  except  that  he  used  to  go  around 
to  the  different  places  and  get  information." 

"But  was  n't  there  any  way  you  could  keep  him 
home,  or  at  least  on  this  side  of  the  creek1?" 

Miss  Nestor  answered  the  question  with  another: 

"I  keep  him  home,  Jean,  when  your  father  was 
willing  that  he  should  go,  and  praised  him  for  what 
he  did?" 

"I  see,"  Jean  said  gravely.  She  meant,  of  course, 
that  she  understood  how  her  aunt  was  powerless  to 
interfere  in  any  matter  on  which  David  Ainsworth 
had  set  the  seal  of  his  approval;  what  she  did  not 
see  was  how  her  father  could  have  allowed  Tommy, 
impulsive,  impressionable,  weak  of  will,  to  be  ex- 
posed to  influences  that  might  easily  have  affected 
for  the  worse  a  far  stronger  character.  He  had  not 
lacked  initiative,  but  he  had  never  had  a  sense  of 
proportion.  His  mind  was  chameleon-like,  assum- 
ing the  coloration  reflected  from  the  opinions  of  the 
last  speaker.  To  Jean  there  seemed  something 
cruel  in  David  Ainsworth's  blindness  to  those 
characteristics  that  had  been  obvious  to  her  ever 
since  Tommy's  childhood.  "You  could  n't  do  any- 
thing, Aunt  Mary?" 

"I  did  my  best,  Jean,  indeed  I  did !  I  thought 
it  could  n't  be  good  for  Tommy  to  go  downtown  so 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE          215 

much,  and  I  said  so,  more  than  once.  But  David 
seemed  to  think  it  was  all  right.  He  said  it  was 
nonsense — my  idea  that  Tommy  was  being 
coarsened  and  spoiled;  there  was  no  use  arguing 
with  him." 

"No,"  Jean  agreed;  "there  never  was,  Aunt  Mary. 
And  so  that 's  how  Tommy  came  to  be  there !" 
She  could  see  it  all,  now:  some  hot-head  passion- 
ately declaiming  against  Blake,  working  up  the 
crowd  to  a  pitch  of  blind  fury;  and  Tommy,  ex- 
citable, as  easily  swayed  by  his  emotions  as  a  leaf  in 
a  gale,  caught  up  and  carried  beyond  all  control, 
reason,  and  sanity,  a  futile  human  drop  in  a  tidal 
wave  of  primitive  barbarism. 

She  did  not,  could  not,  blame  Tommy.  As  well 
hold  culpable  the  tinder  that  ignites  at  the  touch 
of  a  lighted  match. 

A  timid  knock  sounded  at  the  door. 

"What  is  it?"  Jean  asked. 

Kitty's  voice  answered  her : 

"Oh,  it 's  Mr.  Leighton,  ma'am,  and  he  wants  to 
see  Mr.  Ainsworth." 

Miss  Nestor  was  visibly  startled. 

"Mr.  Ainsworth  is  n't  at  home,  Kitty,"  she  called 
out  quickly.  "Tell  him — " 

Jean  raised  her  hand. 

"Ask  Mr.  Leighton  to  wait,  please,  Kitty;  I'll 
see  him." 


216          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"But,  Jean,"  Miss  Nestor  remonstrated,  as  the 
maid  retreated  downstairs,  "you  mustn't.  You're 
not  well  enough  to  see  any  one." 

"I  'm  all  right,  Auntie." 

"You  '11  only  upset  yourself  again.  And  your 
father — you  know  what  he  said — " 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  he  did  n't  mean  it.  He  was  n't 
responsible.  No  man  in  his  right  senses  would  have 
talked  as  he  did.  He  '11  probably  be  angry  with 
me,  but  I  can't  help  that.  I  'm  not  a  child  any 
longer." 

Miss  Nestor  rose  in  agitation.  Jean  might  be- 
lieve that  her  father's  bitterness  and  rage  were  but 
temporary  emotions ;  she,  Mary  Nestor,  knew  better. 
If  ever  implacable  hate  had  burned  in  a  man's  brain, 
it  had  blazed  out  from  the  eyes  of  David  Ainsworth 
when  he  had  uttered  his  denunciation  of  Dick 
Leighton. 

"Oh,  Jean,  Jean,  you  don't  know  what  you  're 
doing!"  wailed  Miss  Nestor,  wringing  her  hands. 
"You  don't  realize  how  your  father  feels.  If  you 
disobey  him  in  this — " 

Jean  interrupted  her. 

"I  am  going  down  to  see  Dick,  Auntie,  no  matter 
what  happens.  I  must." 

"Then  I  '11  go  down  with  you.  You  are  n't  well 
and  you  must  n't  excite  yourself."  It  was  the  old 
instinct  of  protection  at  work,  the  mother  instinct, 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  217 

the  desire  to  shield  the  young,  at  no  matter  what 
cost  to  herself.  Mary  Nestor  had  always  been 
afraid  of  her  brother-in-law.  Without  knowing  it 
she  had  lived  for  years  in  daily,  hourly  fear  of  him. 
To  incur  his  displeasure  -was  something  to  be  re- 
garded with  dread;  the  mere  thought  of  his  anger 
filled  her  with  a  feeling  akin  to  panic.  But  Jean 
quietly  put  away  the  pleading  hands  that  would 
have  detained  her. 

"Aunt  Mary,  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings, 
but  will  you  please  not  try  to  interfere?  You 
need  not  worry  about  me;  I  shall  be  perfectly  all 
right.  But — I  prefer  to  talk  to  Dick  alone." 

It  was  no  use.  With  impotent  tears  streaming 
down  her  cheeks,  Mary  Nestor  went  slowly  out  of 
the  room. 


XXI 

THE  average  small  town  belongs  to  the  family 
Felid&  and  is  of  the  typical  genus  Felis.  Its 
characteristics  are  those  of  the  common  house  cat. 
Watchfully  suspicious  under  the  appearance  of  aloof 
indolence,  it  moves  stealthily,  with  padded  tread. 
Its  claws  are  smoothly  sheathed;  its  short,  pointed 
jaws  do  not  show  their  power.  Under  the  caress 
of  flattery  it  purrs.  It  fawns  at  the  feet  of  the 
recognized  master  and  rubs  itself  against  his  legs, 
even  while  it  keeps  a  careful  eye  on  him,  lest  he 
strike  first.  For  the  small  town  is  distrustful  of 
every  one;  and  he  who  is  up  to-day  may  be  down 
to-morrow,  within  reach  of  claws  and  jaws  that 
are  alike  sharp  and  merciless.  It  is  incapable  of 
forbearance,  of  pity,  mercy,  or  forgiveness.  It  is 
ruthless  in  its  judgments,  implacable  in  its  resent- 
ments. Its  vengeance  is  a  thing  to  be  dreaded  by 
him  who  cannot  flee  it. 

With  nothing  in  particular  over  which  to  be  con- 
sequential, it  is  enormously,  incredibly  conceited. 
It  imagines  itself  to  be  a  very  great  number  of 
things  that  it  is  not.  It  struts.  And  woe  may  well 
betide  the  man  who  offends  it.  But  the  man  who 

218 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE          219 

wounds  its  vanity  and  belittles  it  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world  about,  is  given  short  shrift  indeed.  With 
all  the  sinuous  strength  of  its  animal  prototype  it 
strikes;  it  seldom  misses. 

Although  he  had  been  born  and  brought  up  in 
Randolph,  Dick  Leighton  did  not  possess  the  small- 
town mind;  but  he  knew  it  and  he  knew  what  to 
expect  from  it.  For  the  abortive  attempt  at  lynch- 
ing the  criminal  Cass  Blake  a  sacrifice  would  be 
exacted. 

Popular  sentiment  seemed  inclined  to  accept 
(Tommy  Ainsworth.  Would  it  demand  others'? 
Just  how  greatly  outraged  did  Randolph  consider 
itself? 

Had  the  lynching  been  successful  the  town  could 
have  climbed  back  to  its  proper  eminence  only  by 
the  path  of  "rigid  investigation,"  that  would  amount 
to  nothing  but  that  would  enable  it  to  hold  up  its 
head  again  and  declare  its  escutcheon  cleansed  of 
blot  and  stain. 

But  there  had  been  no  lynching.  There  had 
been  merely  the  threat  of  one  by  a  mob,  the  body 
of  whose  recognized  leader  lay  on  a  sheeted  cot  at 
the  Ainsworth  Hospital.  Tommy  had  paid  in  full 
for  the  indignity  he  had  offered  the  community. 
It  seemed  probable  that  his  payment  would  be  ac- 
cepted in  total  discharge  of  the  debt  of  the  others 


220          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

as  well,  and  the  account  marked  closed — as  far  as 
Randolph  as  a  whole  was  concerned. 

But  what  of  David  Ains worth*?  What  of  his 
responsibility,  tacit  and  active"?  Those  were  the 
questions  that  hammered  at  Dick  Leighton's  brain, 
and  kept  him  tramping  up  and  down  the  floor  of 
his  bedroom  through  the  long  black  hours  before  the 
dawn  and  through  the  dull  gray  of  the  morning  that 
followed  the  ghastly  termination  of  the  scene  at 
the  hospital. 

Twice  Miriam  had  peered  cautiously  in  through 
a  crack  in  the  door,  watching  the  tall  figure  that 
paced  the  distance  between  the  four-poster  and  the 
shaving-stand,  exactly  as  Gordon  Randolph  had 
been  wont  to  pace  it.  Once  she  had  spoken  to  him, 
as  she  had  often  spoken  to  the  Judge  when  he 
failed  to  appear  below-stairs  at  half-past  seven. 

"Your  breakfast 's  gettin'  cold,"  she  said,  severely 
matter-of-fact. 

"Never  mind  it."  He  did  not  even  turn  his  head, 
and  she  tiptoed  away,  nodding.  Except  for  the 
brown  hair  and  the  material  of  the  coat — Mr.  Dick 
never  wore  alpaca — he  might  have  been  the  Judge 
threshing  out  some  knotty  problem.  Seven  paces  to 
the  foot  of  the  four-poster;  seven  paces  back  to 
the  shaving-stand  .  .  . 

What  of  David  Ains worth"? 

Legal    proof   of   the    Congressman's    complicity 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE          221 

would  not  be  necessary  to  damn  him  in  the  eyes  of 
his  fellow  townspeople.  Enough  if  they  believed 
in  his  complaisant  foreknowlege  of  Tommy's  act. 
He  would  forfeit  their  friendship,  their  support, 
their  confidence  and  respect.  He  would  no  longer 
be  Randolph's  great  man;  he  would  be  a  pariah. 
Shame  would  be  cried  upon  him,  the  finger  of  scorn 
pointed  at  him.  He  would  be  held  up  to  public 
contempt  and  revilement,  until  he  betook  himself 
to  some  place  where  a  decent  oblivion  could  de- 
scend on  him  and  his. 

Yet  Randolph  might  forever  remain  in  ignorance 
of  the  fact  that  Tommy  Ainsworth  had  in  reality 
been  a  puppet  moved  by  his  father's  hand,  and  Ran- 
dolph would  be  well  content  as  long  as  it  remained 
unaware  that  it  was  being  kept  in  the  dark.  It 
would  censure  Tommy,  sympathize  with  his  father, 
and  send  Dick  Leighton  to  Congress. 

Then  why  tell  what  he  knew? 

Seven  paces  to  the  foot  of  the  four-poster,  on 
which  the  carefully  smoothed  pillows  bore  plump 
witness  that  no  head  had  pressed  them  the  night 
before ;  seven  paces  back  to  the  shaving-stand,  where 
the  oval  mirror  showed  the  reflection  of  a  face 
stamped  with  sudden  lines  of  trouble  and  anxiety. 
Seven  paces  to  the  foot  of  the  four-poster  .  .  . 

Why  not  let  the  matter  rest  where  it  was*?  To 
reveal  his  knowledge  would  do  him  little  if  any 


222          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

good.  True,  it  would  put  an  end  to  the  power  and 
prestige  of  David  Ainsworth,  definitely  settle  the 
nomination;  but  would  it  not  be  equally  likely  to 
put  an  end  to  something  which  to  Dick  Leighton 
meant  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world — his 
hope  of  marriage  to  Jean  Ainsworth?  The  death 
of  Tommy,  tragic  and  terrible  though  it  had  been, 
had  not  changed  and  would  not  change  her  love  for 
him.  He  was  an  officer  of  the  law,  and  he  had 
killed  her  brother  when  the  latter  was  engaged  in 
a  desperate  attempt  to  commit  a  crime.  And 
Tommy  had  sprung  at  him,  had  in  effect  attacked 
him  and  urged  others  to  do  the  same.  To  shoot 
had  been  the  only  course  open  to  Dick.  Jean  had 
understood  that.  Her  attitude  toward  him  after 
the  tragedy  had  shown  conclusively  that  she  held 
him  guiltless. 

But  how  would  she  regard  an  attack  on  her 
father,  an  attack  which  if  successful  would  bring 
him  to  ruin  and  disgrace*?  Would  she  look  upon  it 
as  necessary,  even  justifiable,  or  would  she  turn  in 
detestation  and  repulsion  from  the  man  who  had 
instigated  it"?  If  he,  Dick  Leighton,  made  public 
the  facts  in  his  possession,  would  filial  loyalty  claim 
her  allegiance  or  would  she  cleave  to  him? 

And  aside  from  all  this  there  was  the  considera- 
tion of  the  effect  on  Jean  of  the  knowledge  that 
the  mob  had  not  been  the  spontaneous  flame  sprung 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  223 

from  the  passions  of  men  temporarily  crazed  by 
rage  and  hate,  but  a  fire  deliberately  kindled  and 
blown  to  a  blaze — and  by  the  brother  she  had  so 
loved,  who  had  been  incited  to  the  deed  by  his 
father.  Already  burdened  as  she  was  by  grief,  how 
would  she  bear  a  further  shock?  Would  it  not  be 
cruel,  inhuman,  even,  to  subject  her  to  it? 

Then  why  do  it?  Why  should  he  tell  what  he 
knew? 

Seven  paces  to  the  foot  of  the  four-poster,  seven 
paces  to  the  shaving-stand  .  .  . 

Why  tell?  What  was  the  good  of  telling? 
What  were  the  benefits  to  be  derived  from  it,  com- 
pared with  the  harm?t  And  yet — 

In  the  polished  mirror  of  the  little  mahogany 
shaving-stand  Dick  Leighton  looked  at  his  own 
face  with  wonder  and  bewilderment  in  his  eyes. 
What  had  happened  to  him  that  he  should  thus 
debate  over  a  question  that  a  month,  a  week,  a  day 
before  he  would  have  answered  without  a  moment's 
hesitation? 

What  was  this  force  within  him  that  compelled 
him,  against  his  inclination,  against  his  practical 
judgment,  against  his  will,  to  go  on,  be  the  conse- 
quences what  they  might?  The  force  was  there; 
he  felt,  almost  irresistibly,  the  driving  impulsion 
of  it,  urging  him  not  to  suppress  his  knowledge 
but  to  blazen  it  forth,  to  use  it,  at  no  matter  what 


224          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

cost  to  himself.     But — for  what?     To  what  end? 

And  then  suddenly,  like  a  burst  of  sunlight 
through  murky  clouds,  he  knew.  The  issue  before 
him  was  not  private,  not  personal.  The  good  or 
the  harm  that  would  follow  as  the  result  of  his 
decision  could  not  be  scaled  by  the  effect  on  him, 
on  David  Ainsworth,  on  Jean;  its  measure  must  be 
the  measure  of  the  effect  on  mankind. 

All  his  life  Richard  Leighton  had  been  an  oppor- 
tunist. While  he  had  never  committed  an  act  that 
was  fundamentally  wrong,  his  point  of  view  had 
been  eminently  a  practical  one:  he  had  done  that 
thing  which  seemed  to  promise  the  greatest  benefit 
to  himself  or  to  those  whom  he  desired  to  serve. 
His  methods  had  differed  from  those  of  David 
Ainsworth  not  in  kind,  but  only  in  degree.  He 
saw  it  all  now,  saw  it  with  a  luminous  clarity  that 
amazed  and  startled  him. 

And  he  saw,  too,  that  except  in  detail  the  issue 
he  now  faced  differed  in  no  wise  from  that  which 
he  had  faced  the  night  before.  Right  and  wrong 
were  squarely  before  him.  He  could  choose  the 
right,  and  risk  the  loss  of  everything  he  held  most 
dear.  Expediency,  common  sense,  love — all  were 
ranged  on  the  side  of  wrong.  Opposing  them  was 
a  mere  abstract  principle,  his  duty.  It  was  his 
duty  as  a  man  and  a  citizen  to  tell  what  he  knew. 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  225 

The  crime  that  David  Ainsworth  had  committed 
was  one  for  which  the  possibilities  of  prosecution 
and  conviction  were  very  remote.  At  bottom  it 
was  actually  the  crime  of  expecting  and  counting 
on  an  equal  moral  laxity  in  others.  If  Ainsworth 
had  for  one  moment  dreamed  that  the  sheriff  would 
fight  in  defense  of  his  prisoner,  he  would  never  have 
conceived  the  idea  that  had  resulted  in  Tommy's 
.death.  He  had  simply  seen  an  opportunity  to 
triumph  over  his  enemy,  at  no  greater  cost  than  the 
premature  execution  of  a  criminal  whose  life  was 
already  forfeit  to  the  State. 

"Ruin  my  future,  shoot  down  my  friends,  for 
the  sake  of  a  filthy  murderer  who  deserves  to  be 
lynched."  Different  words  but  essentially  the  same 
argument  that  David  Ainsworth  used,  the  same 
argument  that  thousands  of  men  used  when  their 
ambitions  or  their  desires  conflicted  with  decency 
and  honor  and  right.  Thousands  of  men,  so  many 
that  it  had  become  a  reasonable  assumption  that  all 
men  accepted  the  same  point  of  view;  no  one  was 
expected  to  do  his  duty  if  a  sufficient  number  wanted 
to  swerve  him  from  it. 

When  the  cry  of  "Lynch  him !"  arises,  it  is  under- 
stood that  an  annoyed  sheriff  is,  in  all  probability, 
already  making  plans,  not  to  uphold  his  oath  of  of- 
fice, but  to  save  his  face;  not  to  fight  to  the  last 


226          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

ditch  to  protect  the  life  in  his  charge,  but  to  get  out 
of  a  nasty  situation  with  as  little  damage  to  himself 
and  his  adherents  as  possible. 

A  crime  is  committed.  A  man  is  arrested  for  it. 
If  public  sentiment  be  sufficiently  aroused  against 
the  offender,  somebody  cries,  "Lynch  him !"  A  mob 
forms.  A  mob  is  created  very  easily.  Any  crowd 
of  excited,  overwrought  men  can  be  turned  into  a 
mob  by  the  appearance  of  a  leader.  "Lynch  him !" 
"String  him  up!"  He  may  be  innocent;  he  may  be 
guilty.  Why  wait  to  prove  him  either*?  Lynch 
him  first,  and  try  him  afterward! 

A  mob  has  no  reasoning  power,  no  sense  of  jus- 
tice, no  brain.  It  has  only  a  voice  and  a  lust  for 
blood.  It  listens  to  no  arguments,  for  there  is  only 
one  argument  it  can  understand  and  that  is  very 
seldom  used  against  it.  It  is  resistless  because  it 
knows  that  it  will  meet  with  no  opposition  worthy 
of  the  name.  That  is  why  it  is  born;  that  is  why 
it  is  so  terrible.  It  has  no  fear,  because  there  is 
nothing  of  which  to  be  afraid. 

The  law*?  Who's  going  to  uphold  the  law*? 
Not  the  sheriff  and  his  deputies.  Nobody  expects 
them  to  fight;  nobody  dreams  that  they  will.  They 
might  get  hurt  if  they  did,  or  they  might  hurt  some 
useful  supporter.  And  for  the  sake  of  a  scoundrel 
who  deserves  to  be  lynched1?  What 's  Hecuba  to 
them? 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE          227 

No;  no  need  to  worry  about  the  sheriff.  He  has 
other  things  to  consider;  his  friends,  his  own  skin, 
his  chances  for  reelection.  He  '11  talk,  but  he  won't 
shoot;  it  isn't  done.  "Come  on  and  get  him, 
boys!"  And  the  mob  goes  on  and  gets  him. 
Nobody 's  hurt,  except  the  prisoner.  Nobody  is 
punished,  because  it 's  quite  likely  that  the  leaders 
are  men  of  importance  in  the  community,  and  it 
would  never  do  to  implicate  them.  Think  of  the 
scandal ! 

Oh,  it  Js  perfectly  safe,  for  everybody,  and  every- 
body knows  that  it  is.  Every  individual  member  of 
the  mob  knows  that  it  is. 

But  if  every  potential  murderer  knew  that  detec- 
tion and  conviction  were  inevitable,  the  percentage 
of  murders  would  be  enormously  decreased'.  If 
every  violence-breeding,  law-defying  adherent  of 
ochlocracy  knew  that  he  would  meet  well-aimed 
bullets,  instead  of  shrugs  and  time-worn  excuses, 
there  would  be  no  mobs.  There  would  be  no 
leaders.  The  David  Ainsworths  who  sit  in  com- 
fortable libraries  or  offices  would  find  that  the  game 
they  had  for  so  long  played  in  perfect  security  was 
become  hazardous  in  the  extreme.  Self-preserva- 
tion would  demand  that  they  cease  to  break  laws 
or  to  incite  others  to  break  them — in  that  particular 
way,  at  least. 

It  might  even  be  possible  to  awaken  a  self-satisfied 


228          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

section  of  the  national  community  to  tihe  realization 
that  the  lynching  of  any  human  being,  regardless 
of  color  or  creed,  is  a  crime  of  a  particularly  bar- 
barous and  cowardly  sort;  and  that  the  majority 
of  decent  men  and  women  regard  it  with  horror,  and 
its  advocates  and  apologists  with  abhorrence  and 
shrinking  disgust. 

But  the  awakening  of  the  public  conscience  is 
not  always  a  simple  matter.  The  public,  as  a 
whole,  exhibits  the  natural  characteristics  of  its 
component  parts.  It  is  not  the  affair  of  a  moment 
to  spur  it  to  definite  and  drastic  action  against  a 
criminal  or  a  number  of  criminals,  if  the  crime  has 
been  committed  against  an  individual  who  has 
aroused  it  to  indignation  and  disgust.  It  deplores 
the  crime  of  lynching,  inveighs  against  it,  wonders 
why  nothing  is  done,  and  itself  does  nothing.  But 
it  is  virtuously  convinced  that  somebody  ought  to 
do  something;  somebody  ought  to  start  a  movement 
against  the  ominously  spreading  menace;  somebody 
ought  to  point  and  lead  the  way. 

Seven  steps  to  the  foot  of  the  four-poster;  seven 
steps  back  to  the  shaving-stand  .  .  . 

"But  why  should  I  do  it?  Why  should  I  be  the 
first1?"  Dick  Leigh  ton  demanded  of  the  haggard 
man  in  the  mirror. 

Seven  steps  to  the  foot  of  the  four-poster  .  .  . 

The  pillows  on  the  bed  were  laid  flat  and  smooth, 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  229 

but  he  seemed  to  see  them  piled  one  behind  the 
other,  and  propped  up  on  them,  a  thin,  white-haired 
old  man;  an  old  man  with  eyes  that,  clear  and 
bright,  flickered  under  the  bristling  white  brows 
with  a  glint  like  sunlight  on  blued  steel.  What 
was  it  the  Judge  had  said1?  "Stand  square  with 
yourself.  When  you  're  in  the  dark,  keep  still  until 
you  see  light  ahead.  Then  travel  straight  for  it, 
no  matter  what  or  who  gets  in  the  way." 

Seven  paces  back  to  the  shaving-stand  .  .  . 

On  one  of  the  mahogany  uprights  was  the  straw 
hat  Dick  had  hung  there  a  few  hours  before.  He 
picked  it  up  and  went  out. 


XXII 

THROUGH  the  curtained  windows  of  the 
library  the  flat,  anemic  daylight  crept, 
struggling  with  the  light  from  the  electric  globes 
and,  worsted,  achieving  the  petty  triumph  of  mak- 
ing it  appear  too  bright,  too  glaring,  so  that  it 
sharpened  everything  in  the  room  with  a  hard  bril- 
liance of  detail. 

To  Dick  Leighton,  coming  in  from  the  rain- 
drenched  grayness  of  outdoors,  it  seemed  garish, 
like  a  flourish  of  brass  trumpets  in  a  confined  space. 
He  went  over  to  the  French  windows  and,  pulling 
aside  the  curtains,  looked  out  into  the  achromatic 
blur  of  the  garden.  The  wet  fingers  of  the  fog 
painted  every  tree  and  bush  and  shrub  with  the 
same  neutral  tint;  the  grape  arbor  crept  away  out 
of  sight  into  a  veil  of  gray  vapor,  trailing  behind 
it  long  streamers  that  billowed  out,  around  and 
above  the  low-roofed  garage,  and  piled  themselves 
one  on  another  like  a  puffy  blanket.  Globules  of 
water,  thick  and  oily-looking,  formed  constantly, 
and  ran  down  the  sloping  eaves,  dropping  off  in 
a  little  trickling  stream  that  splashed,  metallically 
monotonous,  on  the  running-gear  of  a  red  roadster 

230 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE          231 

that  stood  just  outside  the  half-closed  doors. 
Tommy's  new  roadster  of  which  he  had  been  so 
naively  proud.  It  must  have  stood  out  there,  for- 
gotten, in  the  rain  all  night. 

Dick  pulled  the  curtain  across  the  window  and 
turned  away,  a  tightness  at  his  throat.  He  recalled 
the  first  day  that  Tommy,  elaborately  indifferent  to 
the  world,  had  driven  the  red  car  down  street. 
Tommy,  wearing  the  very  latest  thing  in  motor 
coats,  with  a  peaked  cap  tilted  aslant,  lounging  non- 
chalantly behind  the  wheel  and  sounding  a  blast  on 
the  horn  at  every  crossing.  He  had  blown  it  loudly 
at  Dick,  and  given  him  a  stiff  salute. 

The  driving-gloves  he  had  worn  lay  on  the  table 
now,  beside  the  lamp:  lemon-yellow  gauntlets  with 
large  black  buttons.  Between  the  first  and  second 
fingers  on  one  of  them  a  brown  scorch  showed  where 
a  cigarette  had  burned  down  too  close.  There  was 
a  pile  of  stubs  in  the  glass  tray;  a  fine  film  of  drab 
ash  had  settled  over  the  table  top.  On  the  back 
of  a  chair  near  the  door  a  turtle-necked  sweater  had 
been  tossed;  a  striped  cap  had  fallen  to  the  floor 
beside  it.  Tommy  had  worn  both  cap  and  sweater 
when  he  joined  one  of  the  posses  in  the  search  for 
Cass  Blake.  On  the  mantel-shelf  was  Tommy's 
favorite  pipe;  a  worn  tobacco  pouch;  an  automobile 
catalogue  he  had  borrowed  from  Cory  Jackson. 
Tommy  had  spent  but  little  time  in  the  room,  yet 


232          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

it  seemed  that  nowhere  could  Dick  turn  his  eyes 
but  something  reminded  him  vividly,  insistently  of 
the  boy  who  had  been. 

Regret  gripped  him  anew;  regret  and  a  sort  of 
bitter  resentment  at  the  utter  futility  of  it  all. 
How  the  wanton  gods  of  malicious  destiny  must 
have  laughed !  The  boy  whom  he  had  known  since 
childhood,  the  brother  of  the  girl  he  loved ! 

Dick  had  steeled  himself  to  meet  David  Ains- 
worth;  he  had  not  thought  to  see  Jean.  She  came 
slowly  into  the  room,  while  he  stood  uncertain  what 
to  say  or  do.  The  pallor  of  her  drawn  face,  the 
pathetic  droop  of  her  mouth  smote  him.  He  felt 
that  he  would  give  anything  in  the  world  to  be  able 
to  undo  last  night's  work.  Perhaps — not  for  the 
first  time  the  doubt  stabbed  him — there  had  been 
some  other  way  out;  perhaps  he  had  acted  too 
hastily,  fired  too  quickly.  Yet  he  knew  that  he 
had  not,  and  that  there  had  been  no  other  way. 

"Dick,"  Jean  said  unsteadily,  and  held  out  both 
her  hands  to  him.  Her  lips  were  trembling;  the  hot 
tears  started  again  to  her  eyes. 

He  took  her  hands  and  pressed  them.  She 
swayed  to  him,  and  he  drew  her  into  his  arms,  look- 
ing down  through  a  mist  of  tenderness  at  the  dark 
head  bowed  against  his  shoulder. 

"Dear,"  he  said,  and  in  his  voice  there  was  all 
the  depth  of  his  reverent  love  for  her,  infinite  sym- 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE          233 

pathy  for  the  sorrow  that  had  aready  come  to  her, 
infinite  pity  for  that  which  was  yet  to  come. 

It  was  such  comfort  to  her  to  rest  there,  in  the 
circle  of  his  arms.  She  seemed  to  draw  strength 
from  his  strength,  calm  from  his  calm,  healing  from 
the  quiet,  grave  power  of  him.  She  was  nearly 
spent.  Body  and  mind  and  spirit  alike  were 
plunged  in  a  profound  weariness  that  seemed  to 
have  drained  her  of  all  emotion.  Little  by  little, 
the  tension  of  her  body  relaxed.  Like  a  tired  child, 
she  laid  her  head  on  his  breast. 

"It 's  so  good  to  be  with  you,"  she  murmured. 
"I  felt  that  I  just  had  to  see  you." 

He  drew  her  to  an  easy-chair  that,  standing  near 
the  fireplace,  was  a  little  shielded  from  the  glare  of 
the  lights,  and  sat  down  close  to  her.  still  keeping 
her  hand  in  his. 

"You  're  worn  out,  dear,"  he  said  gently. 
"You  've  been  under  a  terrible  strain.  I  hoped 
you  were  resting  this  morning.  I  did  n't  expect  to 
see  you,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  I  asked  Kitty  for 
your  father." 

"I  know;  she  told  me.  But  he  isn't  at  home. 
And- — and—"  she  hesitated,  flushed  painfully — 
"you  must  n't  see  him,  Dick.  He — he  's  very  bitter 
against  you." 

"That 's  only  natural,  Jean.  After  all,  no  matter 
what  the  circumstances,  I  fired  the  shot." 


234          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"It 's  not  only  that.  He  blames  you  for  every- 
thing; he  won't  listen  to  a  word  of  justification." 
She  pushed  back  her  hair  from  her  forehead  and 
averted  her  face  a  little;  she  could  not  meet  his 
eyes  and  repeat  the  monstrous  thing  to  him.  "He 
— he  says  that  you  would  n't  have  fired  on  one  of 
your  own  friends,  but  that  you  recognized  Tommy 
and — and  killed  him  deliberately." 

"Good  God!  Jean,  you  don't  believe  that?" 
He  knew  that  she  did  not;  the  question  was  purely 
impulsive.  But  the  enormity  of  the  accusation  was 
such  that  her  swift  declaimer  brought  with  it  a 
sense  of  relief  from  an  emotional  fear  as  gripping  as 
it  was  groundless. 

"No,  no!  I  tried  to  tell  Father  that  it  wasn't 
true,  but  he  would  n't  listen  to  me.  He  really 
thinks  it  is  true,  and  he  's  forbidden  me  ever  to 
speak  to  you  again.  You  must  n't  let  him  know 
that  I  've  seen  you  to-day;  and  you  must  keep  out 
of  his  way  for  a  while,  until  he  's  himself  again. 
He  's  gone  down  street  now,  and  you  must  go  before 
he  gets  back." 

'When  do  you  expect  him?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly.  He  told  Auntie  he 
wanted  to  find  Mr.  McAllister." 

"Then  he  won't  be  long,"  Dick  muttered,  his 
lips  compressed  in  a  straight,  hard  line. 

Jean  cast  a  look  of  apprehension  over  her  shoul- 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE          235 

der,  as  if  she  half  expected  to  see  her  father  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway. 

"Then  you  must  go  right  away.  It  would  n't  do 
for  him  to  find  you  here.  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to 
have  seen  you  at  all  to-day,  but  I — I  felt  that  I  had 
to.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that,  no  matter  what  he 
says  or  thinks,  I  understand  and  believe  in  you." 
Now  her  eyes  met  his,  squarely  and  honestly.  "I 
love  you,  Dick.  What — what  happened  last  night 
is  n't  going  to  make  any  difference.  Tommy  was 
my  brother  and  I  loved  him,  but  it 's  not  your  fault 
that  he — died.  I  had  to  tell  you  that,  Dick.  I 
could  n't  let  you  think  that  perhaps  I — perhaps  it 
had  changed  me  toward  you." 

"Dear,"  he  said  again,  and  bent  to  touch  reverent 
lips  to  her  fingers. 

"I — I  thought  I  might  not  have  another  chance 
for  some  time,"  she  went  on  tremulously.  "It 
would  n't  be  wise  for  us  to  oppose  Father  now. 
A  little  later  I  can  reason  with  him,  and  make  him 
see  how  terribly  unjust  he  is,  but  if  I  tried  now, 
I  'd  only  antagonize  him.  He  'd  be  furious  if  he 
knew  that  I  had  disobeyed  him.  And  so  we  must  n't 
see  each  other  just  yet;  we  '11  have  to  wait  until  he 
is  less  bitter  toward  you." 

"He  never  will  be,  Jean." 

"Oh,  yes,  Dick!"  She  put  her  hands  against 
his  broad  chest,  looking  up  into  his  face  with  plead- 


236          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

ing  eagerness.  "I  'm  certain  that  he  will.  Only 
give  him  a  little  time;  he  was  so  fond  of  Tommy; 
it 's  been  such  a  blow  to  him.  Just  give  him  a 
little  time  and  he  '11  realize  that  he  is  wrong.  Just 
avoid  him,  keep  out  of  his  way  for  the  present." 

Dick  shook  his  head. 

"I  'm  afraid  I  can't,  Jean,"  he  said  miserably. 
"I  've  got  to  see  him  to-day." 

"But  why?"  she  urged.  "Why  must  you?  It 's 
quite  useless  to  reason  with  him  now.  He  won't 
listen  to  you,  any  more  than  he  would  to  me. 
He  '11  just  threaten  and  accuse." 

"I  realize  that,  Jean;  but — " 

"Then  wait  a  little  while.  If  you  talk  to  him 
now,  it  will  only  harden  him;  perhaps  it  might 
estrange  him  from  us  forever.  And  that  must  n't 
happen." 

There  was,  perhaps,  nothing  she  could  have  said, 
no  protestation  she  might  have  made,  that  would 
have  touched  Dick  Leighton  as  did  her  unconscious 
use  of  that  plural  pronoun.  It  told  him,  more 
plainly  than  actual  words  could  have  that  her 
faith  in  him  was  absolute  and  unshaken,  that  she 
stood  with  him  for  better  or  worse.  "Estrange  him 
from — us."  Not  from  him,  Richard  Leighton,  but 
from  Richard  Leighton  and  Jean  Ainsworth,  to- 
gether. Tenderness,  gratitude  welled  up  in  him; 
and  mingled  with  -them  was  a  recurrent  surge  of 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE          237 

passionate  pity  and  regret  that  he  must  hurt  her 
still  more  than  she  had  already  been  hurt.  He  said, 
very  gently : 

"You  misunderstand,  dear.  I  have  no  hope  that 
your  father  will  ever  feel  any  more  kindly  toward 
me.  I  don't  want  to  talk  with  him  about  personal 
matters;  I  've  come  to  see  him  on  business." 

"Business?" 

"I  'm  going  to  tell  you,  Jean.  It 's  only  fair 
that  you  should  know  now,  before  this  goes  any 
further.  I  started  to  explain  to  you  last  night 
when  Evans  burst  in,  and  then,  of  course,  there 
was  n't  time.  The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  I  've  been 
asked  to  run  for  Congress." 

"Against  Father?" 

He  nodded.  Rising,  he  began  to  pace  slowly  up 
and  down  the  rug. 

"For  the  past  two  or  three  elections  a  sentiment 
of  opposition  to  your  father  has  grown.  I  believe 
it  was  mostly  downtown  at  first,  on  account  of  his 
failure  to  do  anything  about  the  Squatter  Creek 
drainage  proposition;  but  a  good  many  people 
seemed  to  be  dissatisfied  because  Cresston  got  an 
appropriation  for  a  new  post-office,  and  Randolph 
was  n't  mentioned  at  all.  Anyway,  for  several 
years  the  idea  has  been  floating  around  that  this 
district  ought  to  have  another  representative,  pref- 
erably a  younger  man;  but  it  didn't  crystallize 


238          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

until  this  spring.  I  was  approached  as  a  possibility, 
and  my  friends  took  it  for  granted  that  I  would  run ; 
but  I  wanted  to  talk  with  you  first  and  see  what 
you  thought  about  it." 

He  paused,  considering,  in  some  perplexity,  how 
best  to  continue.  It  seemed  brutal  to  add  to  her 
distress  now,  but  she  must  know  the  truth  before 
very  long.  Then  better  from  him  who  loved  her, 
and  who  could  perhaps  soften  its  harsher  aspects, 
than  from  others  in  all  its  ugly  reality. 

"Go  on,"  she  said.  "I  understand  so  far,  Dick." 
Almost  from  his  first  words  she  had  understood  one 
thing,  at  least :  the  reason  for  the  antagonism  which 
Tommy  and  her  father  had  displayed  toward  the 
young  sheriff  the  previous  afternoon;  there  was  no 
mystery  about  that  now. 

"I  had  never  consented  to  be  a  candidate  for  the 
nomination,  you  know,  Jean,"  Dick  resumed; 
"never  authorized  the  use  of  my  name.  But  there 
were  rumors,  of  course.  We  tried  to  keep  it  quiet, 
but  'The  Banner'  printed  some  editorials,  and  of 
course  there  was  bound  to  be  talk.  Tommy  got 
hold  of  it,  and  it  made  him  pretty  hot.  He  had 
a  good  deal  to  say  about  it  downtown — expressed 
his  opinion  of  me  pretty  freely — and,  naturally,  it 
all  came  back  to  me.  He  seemed  to  have  the  notion 
that  I  had  n't  any  right  even  to  consider  accepting 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE          239 

the  nomination;  that  your  father  was  entitled  to 
it  by  a  sort  of  divine  law.  And  your  father  and 
McAllister  appeared  to  agree  with  him.  McAllis- 
ter was  so  sure  of  it  that  he  told  two  or  three  friends 
of  mine  it  was  preposterous  for  them  to  attempt  to 
nominate  any  one  but  your  father.  But  when 
they  'd  looked  the  situation  over  a  bit  they  began 
to  find  out  that  there  was  considerably  more  oppo- 
sition in  the  district  than  they  had  supposed.  Mind 
you,  they  considered  it  as  settled  that  I  was  going 
to  run. 

"McAllister  scuttled  around,  trying  to  get  the  old 
organization  in  line,  and  when  it  did  n't  pan  out 
to  suit  him  he  began  to  get  worried.  There  were 
two  or  three  conferences  and  a  good  deal  of  nosing 
around  to  see  if  anything  I  'd  done  could  be  dug  up 
and  used  against  me — something  discreditable,  of 
course,  that  would  make  effectual  campaign  material. 
Tommy  poked  about  downtown  and  McAllister  on 
the  Hill,  but,  as  far  as  I  could  find  out,  they  did  n't 
unearth  anything  that  was  worth  using.  And  then 
this  Blake  affair  happened." 

"Yes,"  said  Jean.  She  was  sitting  bolt  upright 
in  the  chair  now,  her  fingers  spread  out  over  the 
arms,  closing  and  unclosing  nervously.  There  was 
a  look  of  dread  in  her  eyes.  Something  in  Dick's 
voice,  in  the  repression  of  his  manner,  in  the  care 


240          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

with  which  he  chose  his  words  filled  her  with 
apprehension. 

He  went  on : 

"You  know,  Jean,  the  average  voter  is  a  good 
deal  of  a  sheep;  he  follows  the  bell.  If  it  happens 
to  be  pretty  loud  he  just  makes  a  blind  dive  for  it, 
without  stopping  to  look  around  and  make  sure 
whether  it 's  really  on  the  right  neck  or  not.  Blake's 
trial,  which  would  have  come  off  just  a  little  while 
before  the  primaries,  would  have  been  a  big  noise 
for  me.  In  the  natural  course  of  things  I  'd  have 
been  a  fairly  prominent  figure  in  it.  It  appeared 
to  be  mighty  unfortunate  for  them  that  Blake  had 
been  caught  at  all,  because  if  he  had  n't  they  might 
have  made  a  little  capital  out  of  it — talked  about 
the  sheriff's  failure  to  get  him,  inefficiency  and  all 
that,  and  so  on  up  to  my  general  incompetence  for 
any  kind  of  office  whatever.  But  Blake  had  been 
made  a  prisoner,  and  he  'd  have  to  be  tried  at  a 
time  that  would  give  me  a  still  greater  advantage, 
because  I'd  be  mentioned;  I'd  be  more  or  less  in 
the  public  eye,  as  it  were." 

Dick  paused  again,  glancing  sidewise  at  Jean. 
She  had  not  moved  from  her  position.  Only  her 
fingers  had  ceased  their  restless  twitching,  and  were 
gripping  the  chair  arms.  Dick  moved  over  in  front 
of  the  fireplace  and  stood  there,  head  bent  a  little, 
hands  deep  in  his  pockets. 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE          241 

"From  the  point  of  view  of  every  one  who  was 
opposed  to  my  candidacy,"  he  said  slowly,  "Blake 
came  pretty  near  being  a  catastrophe,  and  the  only 
way  to  avert  it  seemed  to  be  to  find  some  method  of 
discrediting  me.  For  instance,  if  the  crowd  in  the 
Square  when  we  brought  him  down  from  the  mill 
had  been  a  little  more  excited  and  taken  him  away 
from  the  posse,  it  would  have  helped  a  lot.  Or,  if 
some  of  the  hotheads  stirred  up  a  riot  and  staged  a 
lynching-bee,  that  would  put  an  end  to  any  trouble 
that  I  'd  ever  give,  politically. 

"The  fly  in  the  ointment  was  that  the  crowd  had 
cooled  off,  more  or  less;  and  while  everybody  hated 
Blake  and  was  thoroughly  roused  against  him,  no- 
body, except  possibly  old  Matt  Foster,  had  enough 
direct  personal  interest  to  stir  it  up  again.  There 
was  n't  any  leader  for  a  mob,  and  without  a  leader 
there  would  n't  be  any  lynching — and  I  should  n't 
be  discredited. 

"Well,  the  leader  was  found — an  impulsive,  ex- 
citable boy,  who  thought  that  he  was  doing  a  very 
heroic  and  splendid  thing.  And  that 's  what  I  came 
to  talk  to  your  father  about,  Jean,  why  I  've  got  to 
see  him  to-day." 

Jean  was  white  to  the  lips. 

"There  's  no  mistake"?  no  chance  of  it?  You  're 
sure?" 

"Absolutely  sure,  Jean.     Do  you  think  that  if 


242  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

there  were  the  remotest  doubt  I  should  tell  you 
this?  I  feel  like  a  brute  and  a  cad  to  hurt  you  so; 
but  the  truth  has  got  to  come  out,  and  you  'd  have 
to  know  it  anyway." 

She  drew  a  long  shuddering  breath. 

"I  could  understand  how  Tommy  might  have 
been  carried  away  by  excitement,  influenced  by 
older  men;  but  to  lead  them — and  for  a  sordid, 
selfish  purpose — Dick,  must  you  tell  Father  now, 
at  once"?  He's  had  so  much  to  bear;  and  if  he 
learned  now  that  Tommy  was  killed  while  he  was 
trying  to  help  him — in  such  a  way — I  think  it 
would  kill  him,  too.  Must  you  tell  him,  Dick*?" 

He  looked  down  at  her  with  grave,  pitying  eyes. 
He  did  not  answer  at  once.  Somehow,  he  could 
not  force  his  lips  to  utter  the  words  that  should 
strip  bare  this  last  ugly  detail. 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that*?"  she  de- 
manded. She  started  from  her  chair  and  took  a 
swift  step  toward  him.  Then  her  hand  flew  to  her 
throat;  horrified  comprehension  dawned  in  her  face. 
"You  mean  that  it  was  Father  who  planned  it? 
That  he  sent  Tommy  down  there  to  stir  up  the  men, 
to  incite  a  murder — " 

"He  did  n't  look  at  it  that  way,  Jean,"  Dick  in- 
terrupted quickly.  "He  simply  wanted  to  dis- 
credit me,  and  he  thought  it  could  be  done  if  an 
attempt  were  made  to  lynch  the  prisoner  that  I 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  243 

was  guarding.  He  had  n't  any  idea  I  'd  resist;  he 
thought  he  had  me  fixed  so  that  I  could  n't  get  out 
without  doing  for  myself.  Why,  if  he  'd  dreamed 
that  there  was  going  to  be  any  trouble  he  'd  never 
have  let  Tommy  go  downtown !" 

"But  the  lynching — " 

"That  was  only  an  incident,  Jean,  just  a  move 
in  the  game.  Nobody  had  any  pity  or  sympathy 
for  Blake;  he  didn't  deserve  any.  Your  father 
knew  that  he  'd  killed  Norah,  and  that  a  jury  would 
give  him  the  same  sentence  that  the  mob  wanted  to 
execute.  You  mustn't  judge  your  father  too 
harshly,  Jean.  His  methods  aren't  new;  they're 
the  same  that  other  men  are  using  nearly  every 
day.  Why,  you  can't  prck  up  a  daily  newspaper 
without  reading  how  a  mob  has  stormed  a  jail  or 
a  court-room,  or  held  up  an  automobile  and  taken 
a  prisoner  away  from  the  sheriff ! 

"Sometimes  there  are  just  whisky  and  rage  back 
of  it,  but  more  often  there  's  some  other  motive. 
Half  the  time  the  yellow  newspapers  are  to  blame; 
they  print  lurid  articles,  with  just  enough  basis  of 
truth  so  that  they  '11  get  by;  they  try  the  prisoner 
and  condemn  him  in  print  and  get  everybody  all 
worked  up  into  a  frenzy.  They  consider  it  per- 
fectly legitimate,  good  business.  They  want  to 
get  a  big  'news  story'  out  of  it  and  increase  their 
circulation;  or  maybe  they  have  a  political  ax  to 


244  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

grind.  Some  one  is  going  to  profit,  that 's  all,  and 
the  end  justifies  the  means.  Your  father  used 
'practical'  methods,  Jean,  as  I  might  have  done 
myself  if  I  had  been  brought  face  to  face  with  the 
same  set  of  circumstances." 

She  made  a  quick  gesture  of  dissent. 

"I  say  I  might  have  done  the  same.  Why  not*? 
Is  there  any  very  vital  difference  between  your 
father's  point  of  view  and  mine4?  You  know  that 
last  night  I  was  going  to  let  the  mob  take  Blake; 
I  'd  made  up  my  mind  not  to  resist.  Then  you — " 

"Nothing  I  said  made  any  difference,  Dick. 
You  'd  have  done  exactly  the  same  if  I  had  n't  been 
there." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  honestly.  "When  you 
talked  to  me,  I  saw  your  reasoning,  all  right;  but 
it  seemed  to  me  that  you  were  just  theorizing  about 
something  in  the  abstract,  while  I  was  up  against 
the  concrete.  It  was  blurred  and  foggy  then;  I 
could  n't  think;  it  was  all  such  an  appalling  muddle; 
I  could  n't  see  ahead  at  all." 

"It 's  terrible,"  she  said.  "It 's— hideous.  What 
are  we  going  to  do,  Dick?  What  can  we  do?" 

"There 's  just  one  thing  to  do,  Jean." 

"Oh,  yes !"  she  agreed  feverishly.  "We  've  got 
to  plan  for  Father.  Because  if  it  should  become 
known — " 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  245 

"It 's  got  to  be  known,  Jean,"  he  told  her  gravely. 
"All  of  it." 

"Oh,  no!  Isn't  there  any  way  we  can  stop  it, 
Dick?" 

"Yes;  we  can  stop  it.  But — "  he  drew  a  long 
breath  between  his  shut  teeth — "but  we  must  not." 

"Must  not?  We've  got  to!"  Fear  sharpened 
her  voice.  "We  Vc  got  to  stop  it,  Dick!  Do  you 
realize  what  it  will  mean? — how  all  the  papers  will 
feature  it?  A  Congressman  implicated  in  a  lynch- 
ing, encouraging  it.  Why,  the  whole  country 
would  be  pointing  the  finger  of  shame  at  us! 
We  'd  be  notorious,  infamous!" 

"That  is  just  why  it  must  be  known,  Jean. 
Can't  you  see,  it 's  only  by  making  exposure  inevi- 
table that  these  things  can  be  stopped?  They  've 
been  glossed  over  and  made  light  of  too  long.  It 's 
gotten  to  the  point  where  lynching  has  become  a 
kind  of  popular  sport.  I  know  that  sounds  flippant, 
but  is  n't  it  a  fact?  Men  who  consider  themselves 
law-abiding  citizens  and  who  would  be  righteously 
indignant  if  any  one  accused  them  of  a  trifling 
misdemeanor,  argue  to  themselves  that  they  're 
doing  the  State  a  service  when  they  help  to  tie 
a  rope  around  the  neck  of  a  prisoner,  drag  him  out 
of  the  county  jail,  and  hang  him  to  the  limb  of  a 
tree.  They  're  'saving  the  taxpayers  the  expense 
of  a  trial,'  'making  an  example  of  him  that  will 


246  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

have  a  restraining  effect  on  others  of  his  kind.' 
That's  their  reasoning;  and  it's  false,  every  bit  of 
it.  Lynch  law  never  had  any  restraining  effect  on 
anything  or  anybody.  It  lets  loose  all  the  worst 
passions,  turns  sane  men  into  maniacs  and  maniacs 
into  fiends. 

"Men  have  never  taken  the  law  into  their  own 
hands  without  doing  tremendous  harm.  In  Re- 
construction days  the  Ku  Klux  Klan  went  mad 
with  the  lust  of  blood  and  unbridled  power,  and 
degenerated  into  a  band  of  cowardly  murderers. 
Every  time  a  life  is  taken  without  sanction  of  the 
law  civilization  is  pushed  back  one  step  toward 
barbarism." 

"But,  Dick,  my  father—" 

"There  's  always  somebody's  father,  Jean;  that 's 
just  why  these  things  go  on." 

Somebody's  father  or  brother  or  son  or  friend  or 
neighbor  or  employer  or  associate.  Somebody  who 
must  be  shielded,  whose  part  in  the  dirty,  cowardly 
business  must  not  become  known,  lest  he  get  into 
trouble :  the  vicious  circle,  in  which  immunity  from 
punishment  begets  further  recklessness,  which  spurs 
on  to  fresh  excesses,  and  which  spreads  and  widens, 
like  the  ever-widening  ripples  that  spread  across  the 
surface  of  a  pond  when  a  stone  has  been  cast  into 
the  water. 

In  the  light  of  his  new  understanding  it  was  all 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE          247 

so  plain  to  Dick  Leighton — the  deadly  poison  that, 
subtle  in  its  influence  as  it  was  malignant  in  its 
action,  permeating  the  whole  body  politic,  attacking 
the  healthy  tissues  laboriously  built  up  by  the  evo- 
lution of  civilization,  breaking  out  into  ulcers  of 
which  lynching  is  only  one  symptom;  the  poison  of 
the  mob  spirit,  virulent,  dangerous,  contagious,  in- 
oculating laborer  and  capitalist  alike,  individually 
and  collectively,  breeding  dishonesty,  corruption, 
and  anarchy. 

But  to  Jean  there  was  only  the  terrible  fact  of  her 
father's  guilty  complicity,  and  of  all  that  the  public 
revelation  of  it  would  mean  to  him  and  to  her. 
She  could  not  believe  that  Dick  really  meant  it; 
she  did  not  grasp  the  significance  of  his  attitude, 
nor  realize  on  what  foundation  rested  his  resolution. 
She  said  piteously : 

"Is  n't  it  enough  that  Tommy  is  dead*?" 

"Is  Tommy's  death  to  go  for  nothing?  Can  we 
turn  back  now?  Or  are  we  to  go  on  and  try  to 
make  others  see  the  menace  of  it  as  we  see  it*?" 

"But,  Dick,  don't  you  see  what  it  will  mean  to 
me,  to  you,  to  both  of  us?"  She  caught  at  his  arm 
appealingly.  "It 's  our  future,  our  happiness,  all 
our  life  together.  Oh,  I  beg  of  you,  don't,  don't 
do  it !  It 's  all  true,  what  you  say,  but  why  should 
we  be  the  ones  to  be  sacrificed?  Oh,  Dick,  for  my 
sake,  give  it  up !" 


248  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

He  took  one  quick,  impulsive  step  toward  her, 
then  as  quickly  turned  away,  his  hands  clenched  at 
his  sides. 

"I  can't,"  he  said;  and  she  knew  that,  do  or  say 
what  she  might,  she  could  not  move  him.  He 
groped  for  words.  "Jean,  you  said  last  night  that 
there  's  only  one  right  way.  Because  I  saw  it  dimly 
then,  I  staked  my  career,  my  future,  the  lives  of 
my  friends.  And  to-day,  when  I  see  it  clearly,  I 
can't  turn  aside  from  it,  even  for  you.  I  've  got 
to  go  on." 

Slowly  she  turned  and  went  back  to  her  chair. 
There  was  a  long  silence.  Then : 

"You  are  right,  Dick,"  she  said,  speaking  with 
difficulty.  "I  've  known  all  along  that  you  were 
right.  But — oh,  Dick,  it 's  so  much  harder  to  do 
right  than  to  talk  about  it — when  it  comes  home! 
It — all  this — means  that  we  '11  be  separated." 

"But,  Jean—" 

"Father 's  never  needed  me  before.  Don't  you 
see  he 's  lost  Tommy ;  he  's  going  to  lose  the  position 
he  values  above  everything.  His  name  will  be  a 
byword.  And  I  've  got  to  stay  with  him.  I  'm  all 
he  has  left." 

"I  need  you,  too,  Jean.  Are  you  going  to  ask 
me  to  give  you  up*?  We  love  each  other.  Jean, 
this  thing  can't  come  between  us.  You  're  light 
and  hope  and  happiness  to  me.  You  're  too  fine, 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  249 

too  big,  to  urge  me  to  turn  aside  from  what  we  both 
know  to  be  right.  Tell  me  you  won't  let  it — 
that  you  're  going  to  stand  by  me." 

"I  'm  not  asking  you  to  turn  aside,  now,  Dick ; 
but  I  can't  desert  my  father.  You  have  your  duty 
— I  see  it  now — and  I  have  mine.  One  is  just  as 
plain  as  the  other.  We — "  her  voice  broke,  but 
she  steadied  it  and  finished  bravely — "we  've  come 
to  the  end  of  things  together,  dear." 

"No !  I  'm  not  going  to  let  you  go,  Jean.  I — " 
He  stopped  abruptly.  The  library  door  had  opened. 
David  Ainsworth  stood  on  the  threshold. 


XXIII 

THERE  is  a  certain  type  of  mind  in  which  the 
moral  status  of  an  act  is  determined  by  the 
direct  consequences  of  the  act  itself,  and  not  by 
any  conception  of  abstract  right  and  wrong.  It 
is  likely  to  arrogate  to  its  possessor  a  sense  of  his 
own  infallibility,  based  on  the  illogical  conviction 
that  whatsoever  he  does  is  right  because  otherwise 
he  would  not  do  it.  When  harm  ensues,  directly 
or  indirectly,  as  the  result  of  an  act  of  his,  he 
promptly  disclaims  all  responsibility,  reasoning  from 
the  ingenious  hypothesis  that  no  evil  could  possibly 
be  inherent  in  the  act  itself  or  in  the  motive  that 
prompted  it,  and  that  therefore  some  one  else  is 
at  fault. 

He  is  righteously  incensed  at  the  stupidity  or 
deliberate  knavishness  of  whomsoever  he  pitches  on 
as  the  scapegoat;  and  the  more  unpleasant  the  con- 
sequences of  what  he  has  done,  the  greater  the  need 
of  quieting  the  qualms  of  a  conscience  that  he  re- 
fuses to  admit  is  troubling  him. 

Probably  there  is  not  a  man — or  a  woman — in 
the  world  who  has  not  at  some  time  invented  a 
plausible  excuse  for  shifting  to  some  one  else  the 

250 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  251 

responsibility  for  his  own  fault.  With  David 
Ainsworth  the  practice  was  habitual.  If  his  plans 
were  successful  the  credit  belonged  to  him;  if  any- 
thing went  wrong  it  was  not  his  fault.  In  Ran- 
dolph, Samuel  McAllister  had  always  made  a 
convenient  and  easy  burnt-offering  for  errors  of 
judgment  or  tactical  blunders;  at  the  capital  there 
was  a  meek  and  self-effacing  secretary  who  never 
resented  being  sneered  at  or  reprimanded  for  mis- 
takes he  had  not  made. 

But  the  disastrous  outcome  of  Tommy's  walk 
downtown  to  "see  what  was  going  on"  could  not  be 
charged  to  the  secretary  or  to  McAllister.  The 
responsibility  lay  elsewhere.  Deep  down  in  his 
heart,  David  Ainsworth  knew  where ;  but  the  knowl- 
edge was  something  he  dared  not  face.  He  turned 
from  it,  smothered  it,  buried  it  beneath  the  blazing 
pyre  of  his  rage  against  Dick  Leighton.  From  the 
inescapable  sense  of  guilt,  from  the  agony  of  remorse 
and  regret  that  tormented  him  he  instinctively  took 
refuge  in  his  hatred.  It  consumed  him.  But  as  he 
stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  library,  an  erect,  com- 
manding figure,  there  was  no  trace  of  emotion  in 
either  face  or  voice. 

As  Dick  caught  sight  of  him  he  came  into  the 
room. 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  sir?"  he  asked. 
"You  '11  oblige  me  by  leaving  my  house  at  once." 


252          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

Jean  started  toward  him;  he  waved  her  aside 
peremptorily.  "Less  than  an  hour  ago  I  forbade 
you  to  see  this  man,"  he  told  her  sternly.  "Is  this 
the  way  you  obey  me*?"  So  might  he  have  spoken 
to  a  child  of  ten  who  had  defied  parental  authority; 
he  merely  glanced  at  her  and  then  turned  back  to 
Dick:  "Mr.  Leighton,  I  am  waiting." 

The  young  man  flushed  in  resentment  at  the  tone ; 
but  he  answered  quietly : 

"I  am  here  on  official  business,  Mr.  Ainsworth." 

"With  my  daughter?"  the  Congressman  inquired 
ironically. 

"Unfortunately,  it  must  concern  her,  although 
I  came  to  see  you." 

"Nothing  with  which  you  are  connected  can 
concern  my  daughter  in  any  way  whatever,  nor 
necessitate  a  personal  interview  with  me."  Ains- 
worth inclined  his  head  toward  the  door.  "I  have 
requested  you  to  leave,  sir." 

But  Dick  did  not  move. 

"I  said  my  business  was  official,  Mr.  Ainsworth," 
he  pointed  out  calmly.  "I  'm  afraid  I  must  trouble 
you  for  a  few  minutes  longer." 

"Very  well,  then.  Jean,  will  you  kindly  leave 
us?  Mr.  Leigh  ton's  business  has  nothing  to  do  with 
you." 

"But  it  has,  Father,"  the  girl  said  gently. 
"Won't  you  let  me  stay  with  you?" 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  253 

"You  already  know  what  it  is,  then*?" 

"Yes." 

The  Congressman's  brows  flattened. 

"Oh,"  he  murmured.  "As  long  as  you  came 
ostensibly  to  see  me,  Mr.  Leighton,  it  might  appear 
reasonable  that  you  state  your  errand  to  me,  as  well 
as  to  my  daughter.  May  I  ask  what  you  have  told 
her'?" 

Despite  the  sneer  that  underlay  the  formal  civility 
of  the  words  Dick's  manner  was  unruffled.  He 
spoke  quietly,  but  his  answer  was  straight  to  the 
point: 

"I  told  her  that  you  were  at  the  bottom  of  that 
attempt  to  lynch  Cass  Blake  last  night;  that  you 
not  only  knew  Tommy  was  going  to  try  to  stir  up 
a  mob,  but  suggested  the  idea  to  him  in  the  first 
place!" 

Ainsworth  still  sneered,  but  his  lips  were  white. 

"A  manly  and  honorable  course,  that,"  he  said. 
"To  come  to  my  house  when  I  was  not  at  home  and 
malign  me  and  my  dead  son,  to  my  daughter! 
What  chivalry !  What  noble  consideration  to  show 
a  woman!"  And  to  Jean:  "I  told  you,  Jean,  that 
this  fellow  was  unfit  for  you  to  know,  but  you 
wouldn't  accept  my  judgment;  you  had  to  see  for 
yourself.  Well,  you  have  seen.  I  have  to  thank 
you,  Mr.  Leighton,  for  proving  to  my  daughter  that 
you  are  a  contemptible  scoundrel !" 


254          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"Dick  told  me  nothing  that  I  should  not  have 
learned  elsewhere,  Father." 

The  dark  blood  flooded  to  Ainsworth's  forehead, 
then  receded,  leaving  his  face  deathly.  He  spoke 
in  a  voice  of  cold  fury : 

"In  the  face  of  my  express  commands  you  re- 
ceive this  man.  You  listen  to  his  calumnies  against 
your  dead  brother  and  against  me — listen  to  them 
and  believe  them!  What  are  you,  that  you  stand 
there  flaunting  your  shame,  your  abandonment  of 
all  decency  and  self-respect — " 

"One  moment,  Mr.  Ainsworth!"  Dick  thrust 
forward  between  them.  "You — " 

"I  am  not  talking  to  you,  sir !" 

"But  I  'm  going  to  talk  to  you !"  The  attack 
on  Jean  had  been  so  sudden,  so  vicious,  that  the 
young  man  could  not  contain  himself.  "How  dare 
you  speak  like  that*?  Jean  is  the  woman  I  love, 
and—" 

"Yes,  you  've  shown  that !  You  've  shown  her 
what  the  thing  you  call  love  is.  And  if  she  had 
not  utterly  lost  all  sense  of  shame — " 

"Shame !"  Dick  interrupted  sternly.  "The  shame 
should  be  yours,  sir!" 

The  Congressman  pointed  a  shaking  finger  at  the 
doorway. 

"Leave  my  house!"  he  commanded.  "Not  an- 
other word!  I  won't  listen  to  you,  the  man  who 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  255 

has  corrupted  my  daughter  and  murdered  my  son!" 

Dick  moved,  but  not  toward  the  door.  One 
quick  step  brought  him  to  the  table;  he  rested  his 
hands  on  it  and  leaned  forward,  his  fingers  gripping 
the  mahogany  rim. 

"You  talk  of  corruption  and  murder!"  he  said  in 
a  low  tense  voice.  "You  who  corrupted  your  own 
son  by  sending  him  out  to  do  your  dirty  political 
work,  who  subjected  him  to  one  evil  influence  after 
another,  and  who  finally  sent  him  out  to  commit  the 
crime  that  resulted  in  his  death !  David  Ainsworth, 
you  and  no  other  murdered  that  boy!" 

From  head  to  foot  the  Congressman  stiffened, 
like  one  who  has  received  a  sword-thrust  through 
the  body. 

"Damn  you!"  he  snarled.  "You  stand  there 
and  say  these  things  to  me — " 

"They're  true,  and  you  know  it!  You  wanted 
a  lynching  last  night,  and  you  sent  your  son  to  see 
that  there  was  one!" 

"You  lie!  And  the  people  of  this  community 
are  going  to  know  that  you  stop  at  nothing  to 
further  your  schemes!  You've  been  pretty  clever 
heretofore,  but  you  've  gone  too  far  now !  I'm 
going  to  have  you  indicted  for  murder.  I  '11  make 
your  name  a  stench  in  the  nostrils  of  the  State. 
I  '11—" 

Dick  cut  him  short  curtly,  quietly: 


256  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"I  Ve  proof  of  what  I  say,  Mr.  Ainsworth.  I 
have  the  evidence  of  men  in  the  mob  last  night, 
their  sworn  statement  as  to  what  your  son  said  to 
them—" 

Ainsworth  laughed  raspingly: 

"Conclusive  proof!  The  evidence  of  a  crowd 
of  ruffians  seeking  to  shift  the  responsibility  from 
themselves  to  a  boy  who  is  dead  and  unable  to 
speak  in  his  own  defense !  How  far  do  you  think 
that  sort  of  'proof  will  take  you*?" 

"That  is  n't  all,  sir.  I  went  to  some  one  nearer 
to  you.  I  showed  him  the  situation  in  which  you 
had  placed  yourself  by  your  defiance  of  every  moral 
and  legal  restraint  that  seemed  to  stand  in  the  way 
of  your  ambition.  And  when  I  charged  him  with 
being  a  party  to  the  conspiracy  which  I  know  was 
hatched  here  in  your  library  yesterday  afternoon, 
he  was  only  too  anxious  to  talk.  McAllister  has 
told  me  everything  that  took  place  here  yesterday — 
exactly  how  you  put  it  into  that  poor  boy's  head  to 
go  downtown  last  night  and  start  trouble." 

"McAllister?"  Ainsworth  muttered.  "McAl- 
lister?" 

"McAllister.  That,"  Dick  added  grimly,  "is 
why  you  could  n't  reach  him  this  morning." 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Ainsworth  could  rally 
his  scattered  forces  sufficiently  to  make  reply. 
Jean,  standing  rigid  with  fear  and  suspense,  watched 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  257 

the  silent  struggle  he  made  to  pull  himself  together. 
Finally : 

"Then  we  shall  see  which  the  public  will  be- 
lieve," he  said  hoarsely,  "you,  a  treacherous,  cow- 
ardly schemer,  or  me,  the  man  who  has  for  years 
honorably  fulfilled  his  public  trust." 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Ainsworth,"  Dick  said  quietly. 
"I  'm  willing  to  leave  it  to  the  public,  if  you  are." 

"I  '11  show  you  up  for  what  you  are,"  the  Con- 
gressman went  on,  his  voice  thickening;  "I  '11  let 
people  know  how  you  struck  at  me  in  the  dark, 
worked  to  undermine  my  position;  how  you  used 
every  low  and  dishonorable  device,  even  defaming 
me  to  my  daughter,  after  you  had  foully  murdered 
the  innocent  boy  who — " 

Jean's  cry  of  protest  interrupted  him;  he  turned 
on  her : 

"You  defend  him  now!  Less  than  an  hour  ago 
you  convicted  him  out  of  your  own  mouth.  You 
proved  he  had  murdered  your  brother !" 

"I  did  not !     And  it 's  not  true !" 

"It 's  true  enough  for  my  purpose !" 

Dick  caught  up  the  phrase.  His  eyes  flashed; 
there  was  a  clear,  ringing  note  in  his  voice. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it 's  true  enough  for  your  pur- 
pose. Anything  is  'true  enough'  for  men  like  you. 
You  're  like  the  mob,  blind  with  hate  and  prejudice. 
You  don't  care  what  happens  to  any  one  else  as 


258  WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

a  result  of  your  acts;  you  want  your  own  way,  and 
it 's  of  no  consequence  to  you  who  suffers  while 
you  're  getting  it.  Last  night  you  turned  a  crowd 
of  men  loose  against  a  criminal.  To-morrow 
you  're  planning  to  turn  loose  a  swarm  of  lies  and 
calumnies  against  an  innocent  man."  His  eyes  met 
Ainsworth's  fearlessly,  challengingly.  "Guilty  or 
innocent,"  he  said,  "it  does  n't  matter  to  you,  if  it 's 
to  your  interest  to  destroy  him." 

The  Congressman  had  recovered  his  poise;  his 
manner  was  self-contained,  incisive. 

"I  repeat,  I  shall  fight  you  with  every  weapon  in 
my  power!"  he  said.  "And  I  '11  get  you,  Leighton; 
remember  that !  I  '11 — " 

"Father,  don't!"  Jean  broke  in  desperately. 
"You  can't  go  on  this  way.  See  what  it  has  brought 
us  now.  It  will  only  lead  to  more  misery  and  un- 
happiness." 

He  went  on  as  if  she  had  not  spoken : 

"I  '11  make  the  State  too  hot  to  hold  you.  When 
I  've  done  with  you  you  '11  be  branded  as  the  cow- 
ardly murderer  that  you  are.  There  are  laws  to 
deal  with  you  and  your  kind — " 

Again  Jean  broke  in,  this  time  compelling  his 
attention : 

"Then,  if  you  're  determined  to  do  this  thing, 
I  can't  stay  with  you,  Father." 

"What!"  he  demanded. 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  259 

"I  Ve  tried  to  be  loyal  to  you,  but  you  won't 
let  me.  I  wanted  to  stand  by  you;  I  meant  to, 
even  through  all  the  disgrace  that  is  bound  to  come 
to  us  when  people  find  out  how  and  why  Tommy 
was  killed.  But  I  can't  stand  tamely  by  and  see 
you  deliberately  commit  another  crime.  I  can't  be 
a  party  to  it,  and  I  should  be,  if  I  stayed  here." 

"You — "  Ainsworth  checked  himself  as  the  door 
swung  suddenly  open,  and  Miss  Nestor  came  into 
the  room.  Her  lips  were  quivering  and  her  face 
was  wet  with  tears. 

"David,"  she  said  timidly,  "they  've  brought 
Tommy  home." 

Jean  uttered  a  choking  cry.  Mary  Nestor's  arms 
went  out  to  her. 

For  a  moment  Dick  stood  silent,  irresolute. 
Then  with  a  little  hopeless  gesture  he  turned  away. 


XXIV 

THE  Phlox  sublata  had  blossomed  and  faded, 
but  the  sweet  alyssum  formed  a  border  of 
fragrant  white,  and  the  nine  tall  rose-trees  were 
in  full  bloom.  From  the  arbor  at  the  back  of  the 
garden  Jean  could  see  the  double  rank  of  four, 
marching  toward  "the  odd  one  at  the  foot,"  could 
catch  the  glint  of  sunlight  where  it  played  on  the 
marble  headstone  between  the  swaying  branches. 

The  resting-place  of  Gordon  Randolph  was  on 
the  sunny  slope  of  the  hill,  separated  by  a  fringe 
of  willows  and  slim  white  birches  from  the  broad 
plateau  to  which  Cemetery  Street  climbed  from  the 
west.  The  grass  was  rich  and  green  there,  the 
earth  a  friendly  brown,  so  different  from  the  raw 
redness  of  that  other  mound  beyond,  where  the  grass 
had  been  crushed  and  trampled  by  the  feet  of  the 
morbidly  curious. 

It  was  the  contrast  that  hurt  Jean.  She  tried 
not  to  think  of  it,  but  the  picture  kept  coming  back : 
the  muddy  ground,  steaming  under  the  low- 
hanging  branches  of  the  trees ;  the  long  grass,  matted 
into  a  tangled  mass  of  slippery  green;  the 
solid  circle  of  wet  umbrellas  that  moved  only  to 

260 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  261 

press  closer,  and  to  reveal  round  white  faces,  blurred 
behind  the  curtain  of  rain.  It  kept  coming  back. 

There  were  other  pictures,  too.  For  days  they 
had  flitted,  bat-like,  through  her  consciousness; 
now  this  one,  now  that,  in  no  ordered  sequence, 
but  coming  and  going  aimlessly,  as  if  they  darted  in 
out  of  the  dark  and  circled  'round  and  'round  the 
lamp  of  memory.  Faces.  Tommy's  face,  white 
and  terribly  still;  her  father's  face,  set  like  a  stone 
mask  in  which  the  eyes  were  glazed  with  red  hate; 
Dick's  face,  haggard,  despairing  as  the  little  hope- 
less gesture  he  had  made  when  he  turned  to  pass 
Miss  Nestor  at  the  door  of  the  library. 

And  always  the  sound  of  the  scuffle  and  tramp  of 
hurrying  feet.  They  were  running  up  the  stairs 
of  the  hospital;  they  were  shuffling  along  in  front 
of  the  house.  They  were  trampling  across  the 
sodden  grass  and  splashing  through  puddles.  They 
were  scurrying  from  around  corners  and  stopping 
suddenly  just  behind  one. 

Night  and  day,  in  her  waking  moments  and 
through  all  her  dreams,  the  faces  had  watched 
and  the  feet  had  followed.  It  was  only  out  in  the 
little  arbor,  away  at  the  back  of  the  garden,  that 
she  could  get  away  from  the  nagging  torment  of 
them.  There  in  the  fragrant  summer  stillness,  little 
by  little  the  jangled  discord  of  her  mind  had  re- 
solved itself  into  something  like  harmony.  From 


262          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

the  quiet  peace  that  brooded  over  the  sweep  of  hills 
and  sky  she  seemed  to  draw  the  strength  and  courage 
that  had  been  drained  from  her. 

On  the  bench  beside  her  chair  lay  the  book  she 
had  been  pretending  to  read.  It  served  as  an  ex- 
cuse for  slipping  off  by  herself.  As  long  as  she  was 
apparently  absorbed  in  it  she  could  be  sure  of  being 
left  alone  for  a  little;  otherwise  Miss  Nestor  was 
sure  to  send  Kitty,  or  Ezra  the  gardener,  with  a 
message,  or  come  herself  on  some  transparent 
pretext. 

Jean  appreciated  her  aunt's  solicitude  for  her, 
and  was  grateful  for  the  affection  that  lay  behind 
it;  but  she  was  impatient  of  the  interruption.  She 
wanted  to  be  alone,  to  think;  and  though  her 
thoughts  had  presented  themselves  more  as  a  series 
of  impressions — some  vivid  and  distinct  to  the 
point  of  brilliance,  others  vague,  distorted,  mere 
meaningless  trivialities — gradually  she  had  achieved 
some  sort  of  coordination;  slowly  there  had  grown 
on  her  the  realization  that  she  was  confronting  a 
problem  and  that  no  one  could  help  her  to  settle 
it.  The  solution,  if  real  solution  there  were,  she 
must  find  for  herself. 

She  had  not  communicated  with  Dick  since  the 
day  nearly  three  weeks  before  when  Tommy's  body 
had  been  brought  home  from  the  hospital,  and  in 
blind,  voiceless  grief  she  had  turned  from  him  and 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  263 

from  her  father  to  the  mothering  arms  of  Mary 
Nestor.  He  had  not  come  to  the  house  and  she  had 
not  even  tried  to  get  in  touch  with  him.  At  first 
she  had  been  too  dazed,  too  confused ;  one  emotional 
crisis  after  another  had  literally  shocked  her  into 
a  condition  of  mental  inertia.  She  did  only  those 
things  that  presented  themselves  as  absolutely 
necessary  to  be  done ;  the  slightest  exertion  required 
an  effort  that  left  her  almost  exhausted. 

But  as  she  gradually  rallied  to  a  state  more  nearly 
normal  she  found  that,  despite  her  unchanged  love 
for  Dick  Leighton,  despite  her  passionate  desire  for 
his  happiness,  she  shrank  from  the  thought  of  meet- 
ing him. 

She  had  seen  him  once  only,  one  morning  when 
an  errand  had  taken  her  down  street.  He  had 
stopped  to  talk  to  Squire  MJoore,  just  outside  the 
shop  she  had  entered.  She  had  purposely  dallied 
over  her  purchase  until  he  finished  his  conver- 
sation and  moved  away.  Before  she  reached  home 
she  had  been  seized  with  a  sinking  fear  that  he 
might  have  seen  her  inside  the  shop,  might  have 
divined  her  intention  of  avoiding  him.  She  almost 
ran  back  to  Main  Avenue,  but  Dick  was  nowhere  in 
sight.  She  stopped  at  the  corner  a  moment,  looking 
up  and  down  the  street. 

Victor  Rivers,  the  young  proprietor  of  the  station- 
ery store,  came  out  to  the  sidewalk  and,  pleasantly 


264          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

enough,  inquired  if  there  were  anything  he  could 
do  for  her.  "The  Register,"  he  suggested,  was 
just  off  the  press.  She  had  thanked  him,  given  him 
five  cents  for  the  paper,  and  carried  it  home,  leaving 
it,  still  folded,  on  the  library  table. 

An  hour  later  she  found  it,  crumpled  and  twisted, 
flung  into  the  grate.  She  took  it  out,  smoothed 
out  the  pages,  and  read  it. 

That  same  night  she  had  a  talk  with  her  father, 
the  first  to  exceed  the  barest  exchange  of  formal 
civilities  since  the  morning  after  Tommy's  death. 
It  could  not  have  been  called  a  satisfactory  inter- 
view, except  in  so  far  as  it  made  clear  to  Jean  the 
anomalous  position  in  which  she  stood,  and  spurred 
her,  for  very  shame  of  her  own  vacillation,  into 
decisive  thought  and  action.  For  David  Ains- 
worth  had  made  it  quite  clear  that  he  had  not 
altered  his  expressed  intentions  with  regard  to  Dick 
Leighton. 

Cold,  hard,  implacable,  he  had  turned  a  deaf  ear 
to  her  plea  for  justice,  for  common,  open-minded 
fairness.  He  had  closed  his  mind  against  every- 
thing but  hatred  and  the  desire  for  revenge  upon 
the  man  whom  he  asserted  to  be  guilty  of  the 
foulest  treachery.  He  was  not  to  be  moved  from 
the  stand  he  had  taken ;  and  it  was  with  a  miserable 
sense  of  the  utter  futility  of  her  arguments  that 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  265 

Jean  left  him.  As  well  reason  with  the  twisted 
pear-tree  that  whipped  itself  frenziedly  every 
time  the  wind  blew !  Its  fury  served  only  to  injure 
it;  the  branches  had  lashed  one  against  the  other 
until  the  whole  stem  was  bent  and  warped.  But 
no  amount  of  props  and  braces  and  judicious  prun- 
ing could  change  its  habit. 

Curiously  enough,  the  comparison  suggested  it- 
self to  Jean,  although  she  saw  only  the  similarity 
of  the  results.  She  saw  the  deepening  of  the  lines 
about  her  father's  mouth,  the  added  arrogance  in 
the  poise  of  his  head,  the  cold  opacity  of  his  eyes; 
she  became  more  and  more  conscious  of  the  vicious, 
consuming  selfishness  of  his  whole  attitude.  She 
did  not  suspect  the  warfare  that  was  being  waged 
in  David  Ainsworth's  soul. 

Jean  had  never  loved  her  father  very  deeply. 
He  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  inspire  in  his  children 
any  but  the  sterner  emotions.  Respect  and  admi- 
ration she  had  given  him,  and  a  loyalty  that  was  as 
much  inherited  as  it  was  the  result  of  early  training. 
But  now  it  seemed  to  Jean  that  he  was  deserving 
of  nothing  so  much  as  scorn.  Whatever  claims 
he  might  have  had  upon  her  he  had  forfeited,  and 
deliberately,  since  only  by  deliberately  refusing  to 
see  was  he  blind  to  the  infamy  of  his  course.  To 
her  there  could  be  no  question  that  he  was  simply 


266          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

shutting  his  eyes  to  it;  the  way  in  which  his  ac- 
cusations against  Dick  had  been  received  in  the 
town  was  proof  enough  of  that. 

First  incredulity,  then  derision,  then  open  hos- 
tility or  contempt,  according  to  the  temperament 
of  his  audience.  Eve*n  Squire  Moore,  a  lifelong 
friend  and  neighbor,  had  called  him  a  "vile,  filthy 
slanderer,  sir!"  at  a  public  meeting,  and  thereafter 
cut  him  dead.  Others  had  followed  the  Squire's 
lead.  "The  Register"  printed  guarded  and  cau- 
tious editorials,  in  which  reference  was  made  to 
"actionable  statements,"  and  counseled  moderation 
— "The  Register,"  which  for  twenty  years  had  been 
but  the  voice  of  the  king  who  could  do  no  wrong. 
Small  boys  jeered  in  the  streets.  They  paraded 
past  the  house  and  committed  sundry  trivial  annoy- 
ances. Ezra  complained  that  two  of  his  choice 
rose-beds,  planted  on  the  lawn  near  the  end  of  the 
walk,  had  been  denuded  of  every  bud.  One  enter- 
prising youth,  apprehended  in  the  act  of  prying  the 
black  enamel  number  from  the  bottom  step  of 
the  veranda,  had  explained  that  he  wanted  it  for 
a  souvenir. 

"But  I  give  him  what  fer!"  Ezra  chuckled 
triumphantly  to  Jean.  "I  sooveneered  him,  right 
and  proper,  you  bet!" 

Jean  did  not  inquire  in  just  what  form  the 
punishment  had  been  administered,  although  she 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE          267 

knew  that  Ezra  was  tingling  to  tell  her.  It  was 
all  part  of  the  incredible  nightmare  of  the  past  few 
weeks. 

Ezra  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other  and 
brushed  an  imaginary  spider-web  from  the  trellis 
at  the  side  of  the  arbor. 

"Is  there  anything  you  'd  like  to  have  me  'tend 
to,  Miss  Jean?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing,  thank  you,  Ezra." 

"Miss  Nestor,  she  said  she  guessed  maybe  you 
might  want  something  fixed  different,  maybe.  I 
thought  I  'd  just  ask — " 

"No,  there's  nothing  now,  Ezra.  When  there 
is,  I  '11  let  you  know."  She  took  up  the  book  from 
the  bench,  and  the  gardener,  dismissed,  went  off, 
shaking  his  head.  As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight 
Jean  put  the  book  down  again,  and,  leaning  her 
head  against  the  back  of  her  chair,  let  her  eyes  rest 
on  the  sunny  hillside. 

Up  there,  under  that  smooth  green  counterpane 
fringed  with  white,  lay  all  that  was  mortal  of  Gor- 
don Randolph,  the  last  of  his  name  and  race.  The 
love  he  had  borne  her  mother  was  no  secret  to  Jean. 
Nor  was  the  contemptuous  distrust  in  which  he  had 
held  her  father;  this  had  been  the  one  speck  in  the 
clear  amber  of  the  girl's  whole-hearted  affection  for 
the  shrewd,  vigorous  old  man,  whose  sardonic  tongue 
clove  sharply  to  the  heart  of  things,  and  whose 


268  WITHOUT  COMPROiMISE 

cynical  philosophy  went  no  deeper  than  the  tarnish 
that  conceals  but  does  not  detract  from  the  sterling 
purity  of  the  metal  beneath. 

If  Gordon  Randolph  had  had  a  daughter,  she 
would  never  have  had  to  face  such  a  problem  as 
Jean  was  facing.  And  what  would  he  have  thought 
of  this  hesitation,  this  drifting  indecision  on  the  part 
of  the  daughter  of  the  woman  he  had  loved?  Jean 
knew  very  well  that  he  would  have  said:  "It's  the 
Ainsworth  in  her,  not  the  Nestor."  He  had  told 
her  once,  bluntly,  that  her  father  could  n't  see  the 
woods  because  of  his  own  trees  and  she  had  been 
very  angry  with  him,  for  as  long  as  any  one  could 
be  angry  with  the  Judge.  If  he  could  speak  to  her 
now,  he  would  say  the  same  thing  of  her;  and — she 
acknowledged  it  with  a  burning  sense  of  shame  and 
self-disdain — he  would  be  right. 

Abruptly  she  got  to  her  feet  and  went  into  the 
house.  The  door  of  her  father's  study  was  closed. 
She  drew  a  long  breath  and  unconsciously  squared 
her  shoulders  before  she  knocked. 

"Come  in,"  said  Ainsworth's  voice.  He  was 
sitting  at  his  desk,  pen  in  hand ;  but  he  had  not  been 
writing,  for  there  was  no  paper  before  him.  He 
looked  at  her  inquiringly.  "Well,  Jean1?" 

"I  've  come  to  tell  you,  Father,"  she  said,  "that 
I  'm  going  back  to  my  work  in  New  York  Monday 
morning." 


XXV 

AFTER  dinner  Saturday  night,  Mary  Nestor 
carried  her  mending  basket  into  the  library 
and  put  it  down  on  the  center  table  beside  the  lamp. 
Jean  looked  up  from  her  book,  smiled,  and  moved 
a  chair  forward  a  little. 

"That 's  all  right,  dear;  don't  disturb  yourself," 
her  aunt  said.  "I  can  see  perfectly  well  here." 
She  slipped  the  darning-egg  into  the  toe  of  a  white 
lisle  stocking,  and  threaded  her  needle.  Then  she 
leaned  across  the  table  to  Jean. 

"Must  you  go,  dear?"  she  asked  tremulously. 
"I  can't  believe  that  you  '11  be  here  only  one  more 
evening.  When  I  see  you  sitting  there,  and  try  to 
realize  that  after  to-morrow  you  '11  be  gone,  it  just 
does  n't  seem  possible.  You — why,  you  're  really 
not  able  to  go  back  to  work,  dear !  You  '11  break 
down  again.  I  do  so  wish  you  would  n't  try,  Jean." 
She  reached  for  Jean's  hand  and  lifted  it  to  her 
face.  The  girl  felt  the  warmth  of  tears  upon  it. 
She  turned  her  lips  to  the  soft  wrinkled  palm. 

"Don't  worry  about  me,  Aunt  Mary,"  she  said. 
"Physically  I  'm  perfectly  well.  As  for  the  rest, 
I  've  been  through  it  all  and  come  out  on  the  other 

269 


270          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

side."  It  was  no  mere  empty  assurance.  She  had 
struggled  along  her  dark  road,  through  the  valley 
of  self-questioning  and  vacillation;  and  light  had 
come  to  her,  even  as  it  had  come  to  Dick  Leighton. 
She  meant  to  follow  it.  The  decision  had  brought 
to  her  a  sense  of  strength,  a  calm  of  spirit  such  as 
she  had  not  known  since  her  return  to  Randolph. 

"I  'm  glad  of  that,  Jean,"  Miss  Nestor  said. 
"I  'm  glad,  even  though  it  takes  you  away.  But — 
does  your  work  in  New  York  mean  so  much  to  you 
that  you  can't  stay  with  us?" 

"No;  you  know  it  isn't  that,  Aunt  Mary,  al- 
though I  want  to  be  busy.  I  could  n't  just  sit  and 
do  nothing,  you  know." 

"You  could  be  busy  here,  couldn't  you*?" 
Miss  Nestor  advanced  the  suggestion  tentatively. 
"There  's  the  hospital." 

The  girl  made  a  gesture  of  repugnance. 

"No.  That 's  out  of  the  question.  I  simply 
could  n't  do  it.  I  've  thought  it  all  out,  Aunt  Mary. 
The  best  thing,  the  only  thing,  is  for  me  to  go  back 
to  New  York." 

Miss  Nestor  withdrew  her  hand  from  Jean's, 
and  picked  up  her  darning  again.  She  ran  the 
needle  back  and  forth  a  few  times  before  she  said, 
rather  hesitatingly : 

"You  know,  dear,  I  don't  mean  to  belittle  your 
work  in  New  York.  I  understand  how  much  you 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  271 

liked  it,  and  how  well  you  succeeded.  Perhaps  in 
a  way  it 's  the  sort  you  are  best  fitted  for,  but  of 
course  I  don't  pretend  to  know  about  that.  What  I 
do  know,  though,  Jean,  is  that  there 's  another  sort 
of  work  for  you  here;  and  to  me  it  seems  more  im- 
portant to  you  than  anything  else  possibly  could 
be.  I  mean,"  she  said  as  Jean  looked  at  her  in- 
terrogatively, "your  father.  He  needs  you,  needs 
you  more  than  your  surgeons  or  your  patients  or 
your  social-settlement  people,  or  anybody  in  the 
world." 

Jean  shook  her  head  slowly. 

"No;  you  're  mistaken,  Aunt  Mary.  I  thought 
he  did,  too,  at  first.  I  thought  I  could  help  him, 
and  that  my  first  duty  was  to  him.  But  I  was 
wrong.  He  does  n't  need  me.  He  does  n't  need 
anybody.  He  's  quite  sufficient  unto  himself.  I  've 
talked  to  him,  tried  to  make  him  see  my  point  of 
view,  or  at  least  to  admit  that  I  have  a  point  of  view. 
I  might  as  well  have  saved  my  breath.  And  I 
said  my  last  word  to-day." 

"But,  Jean,"  pleaded  Miss  Nestor,  "is  it  really 
any  wonder  that  he  's  bitter?  Why,  his  very  suf- 
fering makes  him  so !  Think  just  a  moment.  Two 
weeks  before  you  came  back  to  Randolph  he  had 
everything.  Even  the  little  breach  between  you 
and  him  was  healed  over.  You  were  coming  to 
take  charge  of  the  hospital  that  he  'd  built  and  was 


272          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

so  proud  of.  He  was  proud  of  your  ability  to  do  it, 
proud  of  Tommy,  proud  of  the  fact  that  every  one 
looked  up  to  him  and  respected  him.  He  was  the 
biggest  man  in  the  county,  and  he  was  proud  of  that, 
too. 

"And  now — what  has  he  now?  Tommy  is  dead; 
and  because  of — of  the  way  he  died,  your  father's 
oldest  friends  are  turning  their  backs  on  him;  some 
of  them  go  out  of  their  way  to  avoid  speaking  to 
him.  Downtown,  people  simply  hoot  at  him  on  the 
streets.  He  hasn't  mentioned  the  hospital  once, 
nor  been  there.  The  newspapers  have  said  cruel 
things  about  him.  Just  because  his  pride  has  kept 
him  outwardly  much  the  same,  you  think  he  has  n't 
suffered;  but  I  see  further  than  you  do.  He  has — 
terribly." 

"And  yet  he  keeps  right  on  doing  everything  he 
can  to  insult  the  intelligence  of  decent  people. 
After  the  way  he  talked  to  Squire  Moore,  is  it  very 
surprising  that  the  Squire  won't  speak  to  him?  Or 
that  the  mill-hands  hoot  at  him  when  he  sard  pub- 
licly that  they  were  a  crowd  of  blackguards,  trying 
to  shift  responsibility  from  themselves  to  an  inno- 
cent boy  who  was  worth  a  thousand  of  them?  Is  n't 
it  possible,  just  barely  possible,  Aunt  Mary,  that 
Andy  Murray  is  just  as  dear  to  Bill,  as  Tommy  was 
to  Father?  There  are  some  things,  you  must  know, 
Auntie,  that  a  man  can't  say,  no  matter  how  he  feels, 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  273 

if  he  's  going  to  keep  the  respect  of  his  fellow  men." 

Miss  Nestor  admitted  that  this  was  so. 

"But  it 's  not  the  general  public  sentiment  against 
him  that  has  hurt  your  father  most,  Jean,"  she  added. 
"No,  nor  even  the  way  his  friends  have  turned 
against  him.  It 's  your  attitude,  more  than  any- 
thing else." 

"My  attitude?" 

"When  he  comes  into  the  room  you  almost  shrink 
from  him." 

Jean  knitted  her  brows. 

"Why — why,  no,  Aunt  Mary,"  she  said.  "I 
don't  do  that." 

"Perhaps  you  don't  do  it  consciously,  but  I  've 
noticed  it,  and  so  has  he.  He  feels  it  most  keenly, 
my  dear." 

"I  'm  sorry,"  Jean  said.  "I  was  n't  in  the  least 
aware  of  it.  If  I  've  shrunk  from  Father,  as  you 
say,  the  action  must  have  been  purely  instinctive, 
because  I  have  shrunk  from  the  abominable  course 
that  he  has  been  taking.  He  can't  be  sincere  in 
what  he  says;  it  seems  to  me  to  be  a  hypocritical 
pose,  a  kind  of  corrupt  strategy  to  cover  the  des- 
perate weakness  of  his  own  position." 

"Jean !"  Miss  Nestor  raised  her  hand  in  protest. 
"You  mustn't  say  such  a  thing;  you  mustn't  let 
yourself  believe  it,  because  it  can't  possibly  be  true. 
You  're  too  hard,  dear  child.  You  ought  not  to 


274          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

be  so  quick  to  judge.  I  tell  you  that  David  has 
suffered  greatly.  He — he  's  really  a  sick  man,  Jean, 
and  if  you  go  away  and  leave  him  now,  when  he  has 
lost  everything  else  that  he  values,  it  will  go  hard 
with  him.  He  needs  you  more  than  he  ever  did 
before." 

But  Jean  shook  her  head,  unconvinced. 

"No,  he  does  n't,"  she  said  stubbornly.  "And  if 
it 's  really  true  that  I  seem  to  shrink  from  him, 
and  he  's  noticed  it,  then  it 's  only  one  more  reason 
for  my  going  away  Monday  morning.  Because  as 
long  as  I  stay  here  I  shall  continue  to  feel  toward 
him  just  the  way  I  do  now." 

"But  you  told  him  you  'd  stay  if  he  withdrew 
entirely  from  this  campaign  and  retracted  the 
charges  he  had  made." 

"Yes;  I  could  respect  him  then,  at  least.  I 
could  forgive  him  for — for  what  he  did  to  Tommy. 
I  can't  forgive  him  for  what  he  's  doing  now — 
deliberately  distorting  the  truth,  trying  to  make 
people  believe  what  he  knows  to  be  the  foulest  of 
lies.  I  can't  forgive  him,  Aunt  Mary," — the  girl's 
clear  eyes  met  her  aunt's  squarely — "for  trying  to 
offer  Dick  Leighton  up  as  a  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of 
his  pride,  and  as  a  scapegoat  for  his  own  wicked- 
ness. He  himself  put  it  into  Tommy's  head  to 
go  downtown  that  night  to  stir  up  a  mob  against 
Cass  Blake.  He  knows  that  when  Dick  fired  he 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  275 

was  simply  doing  his  duty  and  that  he  had  no  other 
motive.  Whatever  Father  may  have  believed  at 
first,  under  the  shock  of  his  grief  and  horror,  he 
knows  now  that  Dick  is  innocent ;  and  he  still  keeps 
declaring  that  he  is  guilty.  That 's  what  I  can't 
forgive.  And  I  can't  forgive  myself  for  staying 
here  in  the  same  house  with  him  while  he  has  been 
doing  this  thing.  The  way  I  've  acted  is  very 
nearly  as  little  excusable." 

"The  way  you've  acted,  Jean*?"  repeated  Miss 
Nestor,  in  puzzled  astonishment.  "Why,  what  do 
you  mean*?  How  else  could  you  have  acted1?" 

"I  could  have  done  what  I  knew  to  be  right,  in- 
stead of  sitting  down  and  feeling  sorry  for  myself!" 
Jean  told  her  with  fierce  bitterness.  "I  talked  a 
lot — very  fine-sounding  talk,  too —  about  'duty'  and 
'honor'  and  'right.'  I  called  Dick  a  coward  because 
he  wavered  for  a  moment,  when  he  was  facing  the 
biggest  crisis  of  his  life.  But  when  it  came  home  to 
me,  did  /  face  it?  No,  I  didn't.  I  wasn't  big 
enough.  I  just  stood  out  of  the  way  and  cried  and 
wrung  my  hands,  and  let  Dick  fight  all  alone." 

"But,  Jean  dear,  you  were  frightfully  shocked 
and  overwrought.  Dick  could  'nt  expect — " 

"He  expected  nothing,  and  that 's  what  he  got!" 
flashed  the  girl.  "He  needed  me.  He  was  the 
only  one  who  did  need  me ;  but  I  thought  only  of  our 
Joss,  our  trouble,  never  of  what  he  had  to  bear,. 


276          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

He  staked  everything  he  cared  for  on  earth  for  the 
sake  of  a  principle;  when  he  fired  into  the  mob  that 
night  he  believed  he  was  putting  an  end  to  his  whole 
career.  He  came  here  the  next  day  and  told  me 
that  he  was  going  on,  that  he  was  going  to  do  the 
right  thing,  as  he  saw  it,  no  matter  what  it  might 
cost  him." 

"It  must  have  been  very  hard  for  him,"  mur- 
mured Miss  Nestor,  sympathetically. 

"Hard!"  Jean  laughed  excitedly.  "Oh,  no, 
Aunt  Mary,  it  wasn't  hard.  And  I  made  it  so 
much  easier!  I  tried  to  get  him  to  give  it  up, 
pleaded  with  him  that  it  was  going  to  hurt  me  if 
he  kept  on.  I  begged  him  not  to  make  the  facts 
public,  for  my  sake.  I  did  n't  want  to  suffer.  It 
was  all  right  for  him  to  hurt  his  friends  or  himself, 
you  see,  but  I  must  n't  suffer,  my  family  must  n't, 
althcfugh  we  were  responsible  for  the  whole  thing. 
Oh,  yes;  I  made  everything  very  easy  and  simple 
for  him ! 

"And,  then,  I  not  only  let  him  go  away  without 
a  word,  but  I  've  stayed  here  while  Father  's  been 
making  these  attacks,  on  him.  I  've  let  everybody 
think  I  believed  them  justified.  I  've  virtually 
countenanced  them.  I  told"  Dick  I  believed  in  him, 
loved  him.  And  how  have  I  shown  it?  By  fail- 
ing him  in  every  possible  way !  I  've  failed  every- 
body, including  myself,  of  course.  Just  at  first,  I 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  277 

thought  I  could  help  Father.  That  was  my  excuse 
for  staying  here.  But  I  haven't  it  now;  I've 
known  for  days  that  it  was  just  an  excuse;  self- 
deception,  if  you  like,  perhaps  unconscious  self-de- 
ception, but  all  wrong,  just  the  same.  And  when 
I  think  of  the  way  I  talked  to  Dick,  and  then  com- 
pare the  way  he  acted  with  the  way  I  've  acted, 
I  'm  ashamed  to  look  at  myself  in  the  glass." 

Miss  Nestor  shook  her  head  helplessly. 

"You  do  exaggerate  things  so,  Jean,"  she  said. 
"Half  the  time  I  can't  understand  you." 

And  then  she  made  what  was  perhaps  the 
shrewdest  observation  she  had  ever  made  in  her 
life: 

"You  don't  make  enough  allowance  for  human 
nature,  dear.  You  build  impossible  ideals  out  of 
people,  and  then  when  the  poor  things  fail  to*  live 
up  to  them  you  condemn  them  out  of  hand.  You  've 
no  toleration,  not  even  for  yourself.  You  can't 
set  the  world  right  in  a  minute ;  you  've  got  to  wait 
for  the  good  to  grow.  Now,  you  just  act  sensibly. 
Stay  here,  and  do  what  you  can  to  comfort  your 
father.  Send  for  Dick,  and  explain  to  him — " 

"Explain  to  him?"  echoed  Jean.  "Explain  that 
I  'm  a  weak,  selfish  coward,  whose  boasted  'nerve' 
deserted  her  at  the  first  real  test?  Send  for  him? 
Aunt  Mary,  I  would  n't  send  for  Dick  Leigh  ton  to 
save  my  life!  He  cares  for  me  now — or  he  did, 


278          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

before  I  showed  so  plainly  the  miserable  stuff  I  'm 
made  of — but  he  '11  get  over  it,  and  he  's  a  hundred 
times  better  off  without  me.  He  's  a  real  man,  and 
he  deserves  a  better  woman  than  I  shall  ever  be. 
There  's  just  one  thing  left — and  that 's  for  me  to 
go  back  to  the  sort  of  work  that  I  'm  fitted  for,  the 
sort  where  I  can  help  and  not  hinder.  I  've  done 
Dick  enough  harm  already." 


XXVI 

JEAN  spent  Sunday  morning  packing.  She  gave 
the  task  her  undivided  attention.  She  packed 
thoroughly  and  efficiently,  taking  as  much  time  over 
it  as  possible,  because  as  long  as  she  could  concen- 
trate on  the  problem  of  how  to  get  into  one  trunk 
articles  that  obviously  were  intended  to  occupy  two*, 
she  believed  she  could  keep  from  thinking  about 
Dick. 

When  the  dinner-bell  rang  she  sent  down  word 
that  she  had  a  headache  and  did  not  want  anything 
to  eat.  The  truth  of  the  matter  was  that  she  did 
not  want  to  sit  through  a  meal  with  Miss  Nestor's 
wistfully  sad  eyes  reproaching  her  silently  for  a 
stand  the  justice  of  which  her  own  conscience  ab- 
solutely acquitted  her.  Nor  did  she  care,  as  long 
as  it  was  avoidable,  to  face  the  ordeal  of  a  family 
Sunday  dinner  with  her  father. 

So  she  shut  herself  in  her  room  and  kept  on 
working,  in  the  stubborn  determination  not  to  rest 
until  she  had  put  Dick  Leighton  completely  out  of 
her  mind.  But  what  she  actually  did,  at  last,  was 
to  toss  a  handful  of  handkerchiefs  into  the  till  of 
the  trunk,  slip  down  on  the  floor  beside  the  chaise 

279 


280          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

longue,  and  bury  her  face  on  her  folded  arms,  while 
she  let  the  image  of  the  man  she  loved  come  as  it 
would  into  her  thoughts. 

Dick  as  a  laughing,  curly-headed  boy  her 
school-books  tucked  under  his  arm,  trudging  sturdily 
along  beside  the  small  girl  in  starched  gingham  who 
was  her  prim  little  self.  Dick,  contrite,  consoling, 
flinging  his  knife,  most  cherished  of  all  his  pos- 
sessions, over  the  box  hedge  because  the  blade  had 
cut  her  finger.  Dick  in  his  first  long  trousers,  pains- 
takingly instructing  her  in  the  mysteries  of  paddling 
a  canoe  up  Squatter  Creek.  Dick,  tall,  handsome, 
a  cavalier  of  whom  any  girl  might  feel  proud, 
hurrying  out  of  the  office  for  a  word  with  her  as 
she  passed  on  her  way  down  the  street.  Dick  grow- 
ing from  childhood  into  boyhood  and  from  boyhood 
into  manhood,  developing,  changing,  yet  always  the 
same  Dick.  Her  Dick.  For  he  had  always  been 
hers.  She  knew  that.  And  no  matter  what  might 
come  to  either  of  them  in  the  years  that  stretched 
ahead,  there  was  that  part  of  him  that  would  always 
be  hers. 

Scantily  as  she  had  rewarded  his  devotion,  igno- 
miniously  as  she  had  failed  him,  she  believed  that 
somehow  he  understood,  and  that  never  would  he 
shut  her  entirely  away  from  him  in  spirit.  They  had 
been  so  close,  had  seemed  so  much  a  part  each  of 
the  other.  She  had  only  to  shut  her  eyes  to  feel 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  281 

him  with  her.  And  his  imagined  presence,  instead 
of  disturbing,  brought  her  comfort,  relaxation. 
Her  head  weighed  heavier  upon  her  supporting 
arms  .  .  . 

When  she  awakened,  the  clear  late  light  of  the 
afternoon  streamed  through  the  windows.  The 
hands  of  the  ivory  clock  on  the  dressing-table  marked 
the  hour  of  five.  She  could  not  have  been  asleep 
more  than  two  hours,  at  most,  but  she  felt  as  if 
she  had  slept  a  long  time.  A  deeper  slumber,  it 
must  have  been,  than  any  she  had  had  in  weeks. 
Her  arms  and  legs  ached  from  inaction  and  from 
her  cramped  posture.  She  got  up  stiffly,  and  went 
to  the  dressing-table,  picking  up  the  brush  to  smooth 
her  hair. 

She  heard  some  one  moving  in  the  hall,  foot- 
steps outside  her  door,  a  knock. 

"Yes?"  she  asked.     "Who  is  it?" 

Her  father's  voice  answered: 

"I  wish  you  'd  spare  me  a  few  minutes  in  my 
study,  Jean,  if  your  head  is  better." 

"I  '11  come  at  once,  Father,"  she  said. 

"Thank  you." 

In  a  moment  she  followed  him. 

The  study  was  a  room  she  seldom  visited.  It 
was  understood  in  the  Ainsworth  family  that  when 
the  head  of  the  house  entered  there  he  was  to  be 
left  undisturbed.  Usually  the  door  was  kept  shut. 


282          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

It  was  a  large  room,  so  that  the  furniture,  of  which 
there  was  rather  too  much,  did  not  clutter  the 
floor  space. 

There  was  a  handsome  leather  couch,  broad  and 
deep,  between  the  west  windows.  Three  or  four 
easy-chairs  were  set  about.  The  massive  desk  faced 
the  door;  flanked  on  each  side  by  a  tall  filing-cabinet, 
its  ink-well  and  fittings  of  heavily  carved  bronze, 
it  was  distictly  impressive.  On  the  open  space  in 
front  of  it  the  dull  hues  of  a  fine  Oriental  rug  toned 
in  with  the  rich  red-brown  of  the  floor  stain.  There 
were  a  great  many  books,  in  open  cases  built  against 
the  walls.  But  except  for  the  desk  the  room  bore 
no  stamp  of  Ainsworth's  personality. 

When  Jean  tapped  at  the  half-open  door  the 
Congressman  rose  and  came  forward  with  the  me- 
ticulous politeness  he  customarily  observed  with  his 
family.  He  was  wearing  a  suit  of  white  flannels, 
with  a  soft-collared  shirt  turned  back  from  his 
throat.  The  coat  fitted  badly;  it  looked  too  large 
for  him. 

"I  hope,"  he  said,  "that  you  are  feeling  better." 

"Yes,  thank  you ;  I  am." 

"Will  you  sit  down?" 

She  took  the  nearest  chair.  He  selected  one  out 
of  direct  range  of  the  strong  western  light;  but  even 
though  he  seemed  at  some  pains  to  keep  his  back  to 
the  windows  Jean  noticed  that  his  face  was  thinner; 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  283 

the  skin  was  drawn  tight  over  the  high  cheek-bones 
and  there  were  hollows  under  them.  Mary  Nestor 
was  right :  there  was  no  doubt  that  he  had  suffered. 

"I  wanted  to  know  if  you  had  changed  your  mind 
about  going,  Jean,"  he  said. 

"No,  Father." 

"  You  expect,  then,  to  leave  to-morrow  morning*?" 

"Yes." 

"There  's  nothing  I  can  say,  nothing  I  can  do, 
to  induce  you  to  reconsider?" 

The  interview,  it  seemed  to  Jean,  was  resolving 
itself  into  the  usual  cross-examination,  with  her- 
self in  the  witness-box  and  her  father  as  prosecuting 
attorney.  She  answered,  as  patiently  as  she  could: 

"I  've  already  explained,  Father,  that  I  should 
be  willing  to  stay  here  if  you  would  withdraw  en- 
tirely from  this  campaign." 

"And  I  've  already  told  you  that  it  is  impossible." 

"Then  I  'm  afraid  there  's  no  more  to  be  said." 
She  half  rose,  but  Ains worth  stayed  her  with  a 
gesture. 

"There  's  a  great  deal  more  to  be  said,  Jean. 
You  lay  stress  on  a  point  which,  however  important 
it  may  seem  to  you,  has  at  least  nothing  to  do  with 
the  hospital.  The  building  is  completed,  and  needs 
only  the  equipment.  You  are  the  only  one  quali- 
fied to  take  charge  of  the  work  there — " 

"Doctor  Evans  is  perfectly  capable,"  Jean  inter- 


284          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

rupted.  "He  's  not  a  very  young  man,  but  he  has 
kept  abreast  of  modern  methods.  You  '11  find  him 
both  practical  and  efficient." 

"But  I  built  the  hospital  for  you !" 

Jean  stared  at  her  father  in  astonishment,  not 
so  much  because  of  his  statement  as  because  of  the 
way  in  which  he  made  it.  It  was  almost  a  cry, 
helpless,  protesting,  as  if  the  words  were  wrung 
from  him  against  his  will. 

"I  built  it  for  you,"  he  repeated.  "So  that  you  'd 
come  home.  I — wanted  you,  Jean.  You  said  you 
would  n't  give  up  your  work.  I  thought  perhaps  if 
you  could  go  on  with  it  here,  to  a  certain  extent 
anyway,  that  you  'd  be  willing  to  come  back." 

In  the  infrequent  letters  that  Tommy  had  written 
her  during  her  last  year  in  New  York  he  had  more 
than  once  asserted  that  the  Ainsworth  hospital  was 
expected  to  accomplish  what  all  other  means  had 
failed  to  effect,  the  return  of  Jean  to  Randolph. 
"A  pretty  high  bribe,  too,"  he  had  called  it;  nor  had 
he  hesitated  to  express  his-  opinion  of  the  whole 
transaction.  But  Jean  had  paid  little  attention  to 
his  outbursts,  putting  them  down  to  pique  over  his 
failure  to  persuade  his  father  to  let  him  go  and' 
work  with  young  Masters.  By  Ainsworth's  own 
admission,  Tommy  had  been  right. 

"It  is  very  difficult  for  me  to  talk  to  you,  my 
dear,"  the  Congressman  added,  as  she  did  not  speak. 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  285 

"We  express  ourselves  in  different  terms."  He 
sat  hunched  a  little  forward  in  his  chair,  his  fore- 
arms resting  on  his  knees,  the  finger-tips  of  his  right 
hand  pressed  against  those  of  his  left.  "Because 
I  'm  not  naturally  demonstrative  you  think  I  have  no 
affection  for  you.  I  have.  A  great  deal."  He 
swallowed  and  went  on  jerkily:  "You  and  Tommy 
were  both  very  dear  to  me.  I  've  lost  him.  I 
don't  want  to  lose  you.  I  want  you  to — stay  here 
with  me." 

Jean  was  silent.  A  new  and  strange  pity  for 
her  father  tugged  at  her  heart;  but  she  instantly 
hardened  again  as  he  said  brusquely: 

"It 's  because  of  Leighton  you  're  going,  Jean." 
He  got  up  from  his  chair  and  stood  before  her,  look- 
ing down  with  the  frown  that  as  a  child  she  had 
dreaded.  "Do  you  still  love  him*?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  simply,  directly. 

"In  spite  of — Tommy*?" 

She,  too,  rose,  facing  him.  Her  color  was  high, 
her  breath  a  little  quick.  She  was  no  longer  a 
child,  no  longer  subject  to  that  old  childish  fear  of 
him.  She  was  a  woman  grown;  and  if  David 
Ainsworth  had  never  realized  it  before,  he  must 
have  known  it  then.  The  light  from  the  setting  sun 
poured  through  the  wide  windows  and  fell  full  on 
her  face.  It  was  a  very  lovely  face.  There  was 
no  defiance  in  it,  no  bravado;  the  lips  were  firm, 


286          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

the  eyes  steady  and  gravely  accusing.  In  the  poise 
of  the  head  there  was  courage  and  self-possession, 
hard-won  and  not  easily  to  be  shaken.  She  said 
very  quietly : 

"There  is  no  possible  way  in  which  that  could 
make  any  difference  in  my  love  for  Dick,  Father. 
You  know  that  the  responsibility  for  my  brother's 
death  lies  elsewhere." 

Ainsworth  turned  from  her  abruptly  and  walked 
over  to  the  window. 

She  went  on: 

"You  've  had  plenty  of  time  to  think.  You 
know  exactly  why  Tommy  went  downtown  that 
night.  You  know  what  it  was  that  made  him  dis- 
guise himself  in  that  old  suit  of  somebody's  else 
clothes  and  mask  his  face.  You  've  heard — you 
could  n't  very  well  have  helped  hearing — the  things 
he  said  to  the  men  downtown :  it 's  all  public 
property  now.  You  know  how  the  whole  idea  got 
into  his  mind  in  the  first  place.  And  you  know  in 
your  heart  that  the  charges  you  've  made  against 
Dick  are  absolutely  false.  He  was  the  sheriff  and 
he  had  sworn  to  protect  the  prisoner  in  his  charge. 
He  was  doing  only  his  duty  when  he  shot  Tommy. 
I  know  it;  everybody  in  Randolph  knows  it.  You 
know  it,  whether  you  '11  admit  or  not." 

Ainsworth  spoke  without  turning  around. 

"I — I  do  know  it,  Jean,"  he  said  with  difficulty. 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  287 

She  fell  back  a  step,  catching  her  breath. 

"Yes,  and  you  knew  it  the  day  after  Tommy 
was  killed!  You  as  much  as  admitted  it  then, 
when  I  told  you  the  charge  you  made  was  false,  and 
you  said  it  was  true  enough  for  your  purpose !  You 
accused  and  threatened.  You  knew  then  whose 
methods  were  corrupt  and  unscrupulous,  but  you 
hated  Dick  and  you  wanted  revenge.  You  did  n't 
care  how  you  got  it. 

"I  did  n't  understand.  I  thought  you  were 
sincere,  even  if  you  were  terribly  mistaken.  I 
stayed  with  you  because  I  was  sure  that  when  you  'd 
had  time  to  realize  what  a  wrong  you  were  doing 
an  innocent  man  you  'd  be  quick  to  right  it.  Well, 
you  realize  it  now!  You  know  that  your  accusa- 
tions are  all  false,  and  you  keep  right  on  making 
them !  You  pile  one  dishonor  on  another,  until  it 
is  our  name,  not  Dick's,  that  you  've  made  a  stench 
in  the  nostrils  of  the  State!  You've  made  me 
ashamed  of  it,  ashamed  that  I  bear  it !"  The  man 
at  the  window  winced  away  from  the  bitter  scorn 
in  the  clear  young  voice. 

"You  're  still  accusing,"  she  said,  "still  threaten- 
ing. Truth  and  decency  and  self-respect  are  just 
meaningless  words  to  you.  You  admit  that  you 
know  the  charges  you  make  are  false,  and  you  told 
me  a  moment  ago  that  you  won't  abandon  your 
stand!" 


288         WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"Jean,  I—" 

She  did  not  heed  him. 

"You  '11  keep  on !  You  let  Tommy  go  to  his 
death ;  you  've  done  your  best  to  ruin  Dick  Leighton. 
It 's  no  fault  of  yours  that  you  have  n't  succeeded ! 
You  're  going  to  keep  on  trying.  And  you  ask 
me  to  stay  here  and  countenance  this — this  crime,  as 
I  've  tacitly  done  all  along.  I  can't  do  it.  I  won't 
do  it.  If  I  had  n't  been  an  arrant  coward  and 
weakling  I  should  have  left  you  before!" 

"Jean—" 

"No !  I  can't  talk  any  more  about  it.  It 's  no 
use.  Goodby." 

She  turned  quickly  to  the  door.  Ainsworth  did 
not  try  to  detain  her.  As  she  went  out  she  had  a 
glimpse  of  his  profile,  silhouetted  against  the  opal 
light  beyond  the  window,  the  features  sharpened 
and  angular,  the  chin  bowed  down  over  the  shrunken 
throat. 

She  shut  the  door  behind  her  and  went  back  along 
the  hall  to  her  own  room. 


XXVII 

CORY  JACKSON  admired  extravagantly  the 
house  at  the  corner  of  Hill  and  Summit 
streets.  He  had  been  in  it  only  once  during  the 
lifetime  of  Judge  Randolph,  but  he  had  a  tenacious 
memory  and  he  recalled  every  detail  of  the  big 
library  with  an  accuracy  that  struck  Dick  Leighton 
as  almost  uncanny. 

"I  see  Miriam  's  finally  got  away  with  Buddy," 
he  remarked,  pointing  the  stem  of  his  pipe  toward 
a  small  triangular  shelf  in  the  corner  behind  the  old 
desk.  "She  was  always  bent  on  doin'  it.  Three 
or  four  times  she  sneaked  him  off,  the  Judge  told 
me.  She  said  Buddy  was  n't  decent,  and  it  was  n't 
respectable  to  have  no  false  gods  in  a  Christian 
house;  but  the  Judge  allowed  he  had  a  sneakin' 
fondness  for  the  old  fellow  and  made  her  fetch  him 
back.  That 's  the  only  thing  that 's  different, 
though;  you  haven't  had  much  time  for  change,  I 
s  'pose." 

"Nor  inclination,"  said  Dick.  "I  like  the  room 
just  the  way  it  is.  I  rather  grew  up  with  it  this 
way.  I  '11  speak  to  Miriam  to-morrow  and  tell  her 
to  put  the  old  fellow  back  where  he  belongs.  I  've 

289 


290          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

a  sneaking  fondness  for  him  myself.     For  a  'false 
god,'  he  said  a  good  many  things  that  are  true." 

"Oh,  you  know  about  him,  then.  Well,  I  never 
heard  nothin'  but  his  name,  and  that  struck  me  as 
kinder  chummy;  but  he  don't  pretty  much,  does  he1?" 

Dick  agreed  that  he  did  not. 

"Well,"  pursued  Jackson,  "between  him  and 
Miriam  you  've  got  a  handsome  household.  I  did 
think  you  was  goin'  to  have  somebody  in  it  that 
would  brighten  it  up  some,  but  I  s'pose  that 's  all 
off.  I  'm  not  tryin'  to  nose  into  your  private 
affairs,  you  understand,"  he  added  quickly.  "I  'm 
just — well,  I  'm  just  interested,  if  you  don't  mind 
my  puttin'  it  that  way.  Me  an'  Bill" — he  nodded 
toward  the  gaunt  teamster  who  sat  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table,  puffiing  stolidly  at  his  pipe— 
"think  pretty  well  of  you,  Dick,  and  we  'd  like  to 
know  things  was  all  right  for  you.  Which  I  s'pose 
they  ain't." 

"Thanks;  I  understand,  Cory,"  Dick  said  simply. 
"Things  are  n't  as  I  'd  like  to  have  them,  but  it 
can't  be  helped." 

Jackson  sighed. 

"Too  bad.  A  woman  would  do  a  sight  for  this 
place — the  right  sort  of  a  woman,  I  mean.  Not 
that  there  's  much  the  matter  with  it  as  it  stands ; 
only — well,  she  'd  make  it  comfortable.  You  know, 
Dick,  I  'm  strong  on  things  bein'  comfortable. 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  291 

Now,  a  man  can  make  a  bar-room  comfortable;  I  've 
done  it  myself;  but  it  takes  a  woman  when  it  comes 
to  home." 

"That 's  why  you  ain't  married,  I  cal'late," 
drawled  Murray.  "If  you  had  a  missus  you  'd  be 
more  comf  table  home  than  you  would  be  behind 
the  bar  and  then  you  'd  quit  the  saloon  business." 

"Likely  to  do  it  anyways.  Prohibition  's  comin' 
soon.  If  it  was  n't" — he  grinned  cheerfully — "I  'd 
have  to  get  busy  and  fight  Dick.  He  's  got  his 
reform  boots  on  and  he  '11  likely  go  stampin'  all 
over  the  place.  When  he  gets  to  Washington  he  '11 
sure  raise  blazes.  And  he  's  goin' ;  that 's  one  sure 
thing." 

"You  think  so,  too,  Bill1?"  Dick  asked. 

Murray  removed  his  pipe  from  his  lips,  ejacu- 
lated, "Cinch !"  and  put  the  pipe  back. 

"Of  course  it 's  a  cinch,"  Jackson  said.  "He  '11 
poll  the  biggest  vote  in  the  history  of  the  district. 
Dave  Ainsworth  will  be  buried  under  the  land- 
slide, clean  out  of  sight.  If,"  he  added  signifi- 
cantly, "he  ain't  buried  elsewhere  before  that  time." 

Dick  swung  himself  about  in  his  chair. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Cory*?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"If  you  did  n't  look  the  other  way  when  he  went 
a-past  you  on  the  street  you  would  n't  need  to  ask 
me.  He  's  a  sick  man.  Pity  for  him  he  ain't  a 
bit  sicker.  Then  he  'd  have  to  stay  in  the  house  and 


292          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

keep  quiet.  Every  time  he  opens  his  mouth  he 
puts  both  feet  and  an  umbrella  into  it.  He  's  talked 
around  until  he  's  as  popular  hereabouts  as  a  skunk 
at  a  garden  party.  But  at  that,"  he  added  honestly, 
"I  can't  help  feelin'  sorry  for  the  poor  devil." 

Murray  snorted. 

"I  am,  I  tell  you,"  persisted  Jackson.  "It 's 
just  like  somebody  'd  kicked  the  bottom  out  of  his 
world,  an'  he  's  hangin'  on  the  edge  with  his  teeth, 
an'  clawin'  the  air.  He  's  all  in,  down  an'  out. 
He  's  been  high  water  around  here  for  more  years 
than  I  like  to  remember,  an'  it  must  be  some  bitter 
dose  to  see  the  dam  go  out  overnight.  Granted, 
it's  all  his  own  fault;  that  don't  help  him  none. 
He  was  fond  of  that  wild  youngster  of  his,  too." 

"He  ain't  to  be  trusted,"  growled  Murray  into  his 
pipe. 

"Well,  who  's  sayin'  anything  about  trustin'  him? 
You  can  be  sorry  for  a  burglar,  can't  you,  without 
leavin'  the  safe  door  unlocked?" 

"He 's  a  bad  actor.  Always  has  been.  You 
ask  Dick.  He  knows.  Could  n't  work  with  Judge 
Randolph  and  not  know." 

"Oh,  the  Judge  never  liked  Ainsworth,"  Jackson 
conceded  readily.  "No  more  he  did  me.  Said  he 
hoped  he  'd  live  long  enough  to  see  Dick  put  us 
both  out  of  business.  Well,  Dick 's  done  for  Ains- 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE          293 

worth  already,  and  I  guess  my  joint's  on  the  list 
for  a  clean-up.  Well,  politics  is:  politics." 

"Politics  is  hell,"  amended  Murray,  and  reached 
for  the  tobacco  jar.  "Let's  go,  Cory." 

The  telephone  on  the  desk  at  Dick's  elbow 
shrilled  peremptorily.  He  took  up  the  instrument. 

"Hello!"  he  said.  "Yes,  this  is  Mr.  Leighton 
speaking."  A  look  of  puzzled  surprise  went  over 
his  face.  "Why,  yes,  I  think  I  can,"  he  said 
slowly.  "In  half  an  hour,  say? — Very  well."  He 
hung  up  the  receiver  and  turned  to  Jackson :  "That 
was  Ainsworth  calling.  He  says  he  wants  to  see 
me  on  a  matter  of  importance." 

"Comin'  here1?"     Murray  asked. 

"No.     He  wants  me  to 'go  to  his  house." 

"Well,  don't,"  the  teamster  advised.  "Make 
him  come  to  you.  Give  him  an  inch  an*  he  '11  pirli 
it  out  to  a  foot  to  trip  you  with.  He's  a  bad  one, 
Dick.  Don't  go." 

"I  've  already  told  him  I  would,  Bill." 

"All  right.  Your  business.  Watch  him,  though. 
Comin',  Cory*?" 

At  the  door  Jackson  turned. 

"Bill's  right,  Dick,"  he  said.  "He'll  bear 
watchin',  even  now,  when  you  've  got  him  on  the 
run.  Likely  he  '11  have  some  'compromise'  to  sug- 
gest. Well,  don't  you  make  none,  you  hear  me*?" 


294          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

"I'm  not  going  to,  Cory;  you  needn't  worry. 
I  have  n't  the  ghost  of  an  idea  what  Ainsworth 
wants;  but  if  it's  a  'compromise,'  there  isn't  any. 
Good  night." 

It  was  a  walk  of  but  four  or  five  minutes  along 
Summit  Street  to  the  Ainsworth  house.  As  Dick 
turned  up  the  walk  the  sun  was  just  sinking  out  of 
sight  beyond  the  rim  of  the  western  hills.  The 
flat  beams  lay  like  broad  gol-den  bands  across  the 
lawn,  and  were  flung  back  blindingly  from  the  glass 
roof  of  the  little  conservatory  that  was  Mary  Nes- 
tor's especial  care. 

The  windows  of  Jean's  room  were  closely  shut- 
tered— the  first  time  that  Dick  had  even  seen  them 
so.  For  a  moment  he  was  halted  by  the  fear  that 
she  might  be  ill,  dangerously  perhaps.  That  would 
explain  why  he  had  not  seen  her,  why —  But  he 
refused  to  entertain  the  thought.  Resolutely  he  had 
put  all  speculation  and  conjecture  from  his  mind; 
he  would  not  let  them  enter  now. 

Kitty  answered  his  ring  at  the  bell.  Evidently, 
she  had  been  told  to  expect  him,  for  she  said  at 
once: 

"Mr.  Ainsworth  is  in  the  library,  Mr.  Leighton. 
Please  go  right  in." 

The  shades  had  been  partly  drawn,  to  temper  the 
heat  of  the  sun;  the  room  was  full  of  a  diffused 
yellow  light,  shot  through  with  brighter  gleams 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE  295 

where  the  last  rays  slipped  in  between  the  swaying 
folds  of  the  curtains.  David  Ainsworth  stood  on 
the  hearth  in  one  of  his  characteristic  attitudes,  his 
feet  a  little  apart,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his 
back.  He  took  two  steps  forward,  bowing  with  stiff 
formality. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Leighton,"  he  said.  "I 
appreciate  your  courtesy  in  coming." 

Dick's  bow  was  quite  as  non-committal  as  his 
"Not  at  all,  Mr.  Ainsworth";  but  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  he  repressed  an  exclamation  of 
shocked  surprise.  The  Congressman's  face  was  the 
color  of  parchment  and  as  lifeless.  His  dull  eyes 
lay  far  back  in  their  hollow  sockets.  When  he 
moved  toward  the  chair  opposite  the  one  to  which 
he  waved  Dick  he  seemed  to  move  with  difficulty. 

"There  is  a  matter*  of  which  I  wished  to  speak 
to  you  privately  before  it  is  made  public,"  he  said. 
"I  preferred  to  make  an  oral  statement  directly  to 
you,  in  advance  of  the  one  over  my  signature  which 
I  have  prepared  for  the  press  and  which  I  intend 
to  give  out  to-morrow." 

He  paused  an  instant,  then  went  on,  speaking 
precisely,  and  with  almost  painful  slowness: 

"While  my  feelings  toward  you  personally  have 
undergone  no  change  whatever,  while  I  still  feel 
that  your  conduct  in  the  matter  of  this  nomination 
has  been  entirely  unscrupulous,  I  have  become  con- 


296          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

vinced  that  you  are  not  morally  responsible  for  my 
son's  death." 

Dick  flushed.  This  was  the  last  thing  on  earth 
he  had  expected.  He  said  lamely : 

"I — I  thank  you,  Mr.  Ains worth,  I — " 

"No  thanks  are  necessary,  sir.  Nor — under- 
stand me — does  this  retraction  mean  that  I  shall  not 
continue  in  my  opposition  to  you." 

"I  understand  that,  of  course,"  said  Dick. 
"But — "  he  hesitated,  groping  for  the  right  ex- 
pression for  the  confusion  of  his  feelings — "but  I 
hope  you  will  let  me  say  that  your  personal  convic- 
tion means  more  to  me  than  your  public  retraction." 

"My  intention  is  not  to  do  you  a  favor,  Mr. 
Leighton,"  Ainsworth  said  haughtily.  "And  I  am 
not  looking  for  any  favors  in  return." 

"You  mean  that  you  do  not  expect  me  to  alter 
my  attitude*?" 

The  Congressman  bowed. 

"Precisely  that.  I  do  not  want  you  to  get  the 
idea  that  I  am  asking  you,  even  in  a  roundabout 
way,  for — clemency.  You  are  at  perfect  liberty  to 
proceed  as  you  see  fit.  And,  furthermore,  I  am 
frank  to  tell  you  that  if  it  were  not  for  another 
factor  it  is  extremely  doubtful  that  I  should  have 
taken  this  course.  I — "  He  stopped;  his  fingers 
went  to  his  collar,  pulling  at  it  as  if  its  soft  folds 


WITHOUT  COMPROMISE          297 

constricted  his  throat  unbearably.  There  was  sud- 
denly that  in  his  face  that  made  Dick  look  away, 
so  like  it  was  to  spying  on  the  innermost  secret  of 
a  naked  soul. 

Twice  Ainsworth  essayed  to  speak,  before  he 
succeeded.  Then : 

"My  daughter  is  leaving  Randolph  to-morrow 
morning,"  he  managed.  "I  should  like  to  have  her 
understand  before  she  goes  that  I  acknowledge — 
my  error." 

It  was  surrender.  Surrender  complete  and  final. 
Surrender  unconditional.  The  walls  were  down; 
the  gates  were  wide ;  the  way  lay  open  for  the  march 
of  a  triumphant  victor.  But  Dick  Leighton  ex- 
perienced no  feeling  of  triumph.  Rather,  he  was 
filled  with  an  immense  pity. 

The  grim  tragedy  of  it  gripped  him — that  this 
man  should  have  been  forced  to  beg  him,  Dick 
Leighton,  whom  he  hated  with  a  bitter,  implacable 
hate,  to  keep  for  him  the  one  precious  thing  that  was 
left  in  the  waste  he  had  made  of  his  life.  For  it 
was  quite  clear  now  what  was  that  "other  factor"; 
the  last  straw  that  had  crushed  his  pride  and  brought 
him,  a  supplicant,  to  the  feet  of  his  enemy. 

Stripped  of  prestige,  position,  power,  his  son 
dead  as  a  consequence  of  his  own  act,  his  name 
besmirched,  his  friends  and  adherents  alike  in  arms 


298          WITHOUT  COMPROMISE 

against  him,  he  stood  alone,  with  only  Jean  between 
him  and  chaos.  It  was  to  keep  her  that  he  had 
done  this  thing. 

"I  think  I  understand,  Mr.  Ainsworth,"  Dick 
said  gravely.  "I  shall  tell  her  gladly  if  she  will 
see  me." 

Ainsworth  looked  at  him  quickly,  furtively.  It 
was  such  a  look  as  a  condemned  man  might  give  to 
one  who  had  the  power  to  commute  his  sentence. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  said  thickly.  "I  will  call 
her.  If  you  will  excuse  me — *?" 

He  bowed  again,  rose,  and  went  out  of  the  room, 
a  feeble  old  man  with  haunted  eyes  and  shoulders 
bowed  under  an  intolerable  burden  of  pitiless  re- 
morse. Gordon  Randolph  had  been  right  when  he 
said  that  nothing  could  bend  David  Ainsworth. 
He  had  not  bent ;  he  had  broken. 

It  was  growing  dusk  in  the  room.  In  the 
twisted  pear-tree  just  outside  the  window,  a  bird 
chirped  once,  drowsily.  A  cool  breeze  stirred  the 
curtains,  and  wafted  in  a  breath  of  honeysuckle. 
Dick  heard  Jean's  soft,  swift  footsteps  as  she  came 
down  the  stairs  to  him. 


A     000129588     0 


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'       '    ,  .-,"  .      C*    ••    ,      :    I   ,    ••'  -'tr; 

ifaisiss^o^ 


